Page 9 of The Dante (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #1)

Titus smiled faintly, but there was nothing warm in it. “By then, it won’t matter.”

The room grew silent except for the soft clink of ice in glasses. Outside, the distant hum of conversation from the rest of the estate continued, oblivious to the moves being made behind closed doors.

And somewhere, Sam Mirabella was walking away, convinced he had slipped through their grasp.

His supposed victory settled on his shoulders, fueling his confidence as he mapped out his next move.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the conversation had been too easy, too smooth—like he’d been given just enough rope to think he was free.

But confidence overruled caution, and he pressed forward, certain he was ahead of the game.

He told himself he had played this perfectly, had seen the angles, had stayed one step ahead.

THE WEIGHT of the morning pressed against Jazz’s skin, lingering in the quiet moments after brunch. The scent of coffee and warm pastries clung to the air, mingling with the faint traces of cologne and conversations that had since faded.

The house had settled into a hush, but the echoes of dominance and presence remained, wrapping around her like an unseen force. The laughter, the hushed conversations, the unspoken energy that had threaded through the room—it was all there, hanging in the air like perfume, clinging to her evennow.

She needed something to do. Something simple. Something that didn’t involve thinking about the way Titus had commanded the room with a single glance, or how his brothers had watched her as if waiting for her to prove something. She wasn’t surewhat.

So she cleaned.

The kitchen was empty now, the long oak dining table abandoned, but remnants of the gathering remained.

Plates with half-finished meals, glasses smudged from where lips had touched crystal, folded napkins left in casual disarray.

The staff would handle it, she knew that.

But she needed to do something with her hands.

Jazz gathered a stack of plates, the porcelain cool beneath her fingertips as she carried them toward the sink.

The dishes were grounding, something tangible to focus on.

She rinsed them one by one, watching as the water turned cloudy, soap bubbles rising before disappearing down the drain.

If only washing away uncertainty was just aseasy.

“You don’t have to do that.”

The deep timbre of Titus’s voice made her shiver. She stiffened but didn’t turn, her fingers tightening around the edge of a plate. She hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t felt the shift in the air until he spoke.

“I don’t mind,” she said, keeping her tone light. Neutral.

A quiet pause stretched between them. She wasn’t sure if he was waiting for her to say more or if he was just watching her, taking her in the way he always did—with that quiet, unreadable intensity that made her feel like he could see every single thought in herhead.

“I have people for this,” he said, finally.

His footsteps were soft against the slate floor as he moved closer. Slow. Deliberate. Jazz swallowed, willing herself not to react, not to let him see how easily he unsettledher.

“I know,” she said, placing another dish into the dryingrack.

Something about that seemed to amuse him. “Then why are you doing it?”

Jazz set down the plate with a little more force than necessary. “Because it’s something I can be in charge of.”

The admission slipped out before she could stop it, and she immediately regretted it. The last thing she needed was for Titus Dante to know that she felt like she was drowning, like she was trying to anchor herself to something—anything—that felt normal.

A moment passed. Then another.

Then warm, firm hands closed around her wrists, stilling her movements.

Her breath hitched. He didn’t grip her too tightly, but there was no mistaking the restraint in his touch. The silent command.

“You don’t have to do that, either,” he murmured, his breath brushing against the side of herneck.

Her pulse kicked hard. She should step away. She should say something, anything, to break the spell he was weaving around her. But she didn’t.

Titus slowly turned her to face him, his grip sliding from her wrists to her waist, holding her there, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating offhim.

“I told you,” he said, his voice quieter now, silk over steel. “You don’t lift a finger in this house.”

Jazz forced herself to look up at him. To meet the dark, consuming gaze that never seemed to release her. His eyes were like obsidian, black and fathomless, reflecting nothingback.

“I need to do something,” she whispered, hating how unsteady her voice sounded. “I can’t just—”

Titus didn’t let her finish.

He moved in a breath, one moment standing before her, the next sweeping her off her feet. Astartled gasp left her lips as her arms instinctively wrapped around hisneck.

“Titus,” she started, but his grip tightened.

“I told you,” he murmured against her ear. “You don’t lift a finger. That includes picking up after people.”

His voice was different now—lower, rougher. And she knew, with absolute certainty, that he wasn’t just talking about dishes anymore.

He carried her effortlessly through the house, past the grand staircase, the long hallways lined with artwork and silent witnesses to whatever happened behind these walls. No one stopped them. No one questioned where he was takingher.

Jazz should have protested. She should have told him to put her down, that she could walk. That this wasn’t necessary. But the words never came. Maybe because she didn’t want themto.

Instead, she let herself sink into the feel of him—the solid strength of his arms, the way his heartbeat was steady and sure beneath her palm.

Safe. Unshakable. It should have made her relax, but it only unsettled her more.

Because safety wasn’t something she associated with men like him.

Clout, supremacy, dominance—yes. But this?

This was something different. Something dangerous.

She wasn’t sure if she felt protected or trapped. Maybe both. Maybe that was the most dangerous part ofall.

By the time they reached the master bedroom, she had forgotten why she’d resisted in the first place.

Titus nudged the door open with his shoulder and carried her inside without hesitation.

The room was breathtaking.

Jazz had been there the night before, but she hadn’t taken the time to really see it. Now, with the heavy wooden doors closing behind them, shedid.

The bed was enormous, draped in dark sheets that looked impossibly soft, the headboard carved with intricate filigree, atestament to craftsmanship and excess.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the space, offering an uninterrupted view of the estate’s sprawling grounds, the neatly manicured gardens stretching endlessly under the afternoon light.

Heavy curtains, currently drawn back, hinted at the ability to enclose the space in deep privacy whenever desired.

A massive fireplace took up one wall, its unlit hearth a quiet promise of warmth for colder nights, its carved mantle adorned with subtle but unmistakable symbols of potency—small, carefully placed details that most wouldn’t recognize, but Jazz suspected held meaning for Titus.

Asitting area, complete with plush armchairs and a low, glass-topped table, all arranged near the windows, making the space feel less like a bedroom and more like a private retreat.

The room, a testament of the undeniable taste of an apex predator, was also strangely comforting, intimate. It wasn’t just luxurious—it was his , and now, by extension, theirs . The realization sent a strange shiver down Jazz’s spine, making her stomach clench as she took it allin.

“This is…” She trailed off, at a loss for words.

Titus placed her down gently, his hands lingering on her waist before he took a step back. “Ours,” he said simply.

Jazz’s stomach flipped.

Ours. Not his . Not mine . Ours .

She should have corrected him. Reminded him that this wasn’t real, that this was a business arrangement more than anything else. But she didn’t. Because in that moment, with the air thick between them and the heaviness of his gaze burning into her, it feltreal.

Too real.

Titus reached for the buttons at his cuffs, rolling them back with methodical ease. “Take off your dress, Jazz.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. The command was clear. Unwavering.

Jazz’s throat went dry. Her pulse pounded.

She should push back. Challenge him. Tell him she wasn’t his to command.

But as she stood in the center of that impossibly large, impossibly beautiful room, with Titus watching her like he had all the time in the world, she realized something terrifying.

She wanted to obey. Her body tightened in anticipation even as her mind rebelled. The instinct to submit warred with a lifetime of independence, the need to maintain control clashing against the dangerous thrill of letting him takeit.

It wasn’t just about desire—it was about the way he stripped her bare without even touching her. And yet, beneath the fear, something deeper stirred, something that terrified her evenmore.

She wanted to give in. Her breath hitched, her fingers twitching at her sides, torn between hesitation and a yearning she couldn’tname.

And that scared her more than anythingelse.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the buttons of her dress, hesitating for only a breath before pulling the material down her shoulders.

The fabric whispered against her skin as it slid down, pooling at her feet in a soft heap.

Cool air kissed her exposed flesh, but the heat of Titus’s gaze was what truly set her body ablaze.