Bound by His Revenge

Chapter 10 – The First Touch

I carried a book clutched tightly to my chest. I hadn’t read a single page, but it gave my hands something to do, gave me the illusion of control.

The library door loomed before me, its carved wood dark as night. I pushed it open without knocking, defiant.

Dante was inside.

He stood by the tall windows, one hand braced on the glass as he stared out into the garden where the storm clouds were gathering. His jacket was gone, his white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. The sight of him unsettled me—too human, too raw—yet no less dangerous.

He didn’t turn as I entered, but I felt the weight of his awareness sweep over me.

“You like to trespass,” he said quietly, voice low, controlled.

I shut the door behind me, my chin tilting high. “You like to think you own every door.”

His head turned slightly, just enough for me to catch the sharp cut of his jaw, the flicker of his eyes in the glass reflection. “I do.”

The words were simple. Absolute.

I moved deeper into the room, letting my fingers brush the spines of the books. “You can own bricks. You can own paper. You don’t own me.”

That made him turn fully, his gaze locking onto me. His dark eyes burned with something unreadable—half fury, half hunger.

“You’re wrong,” he said softly, stepping away from the window. His stride was slow, deliberate, as though every movement was a choice. “I own what I take. And I took you.”

The book in my hands suddenly felt heavy. I forced myself to laugh, even though my throat was tight. “You think possession makes you powerful. But chains don’t hold forever, Dante. Sooner or later, something slips through.”

He stopped a few feet away, the space between us buzzing like a live wire. You’re becoming too bold.

“Maybe I’m tired of being quiet.”

His lips curved, not quite a smile. “Then speak, Isabella. Say what you’ve been holding back.”

I hesitated, a pulse thundering in my ears. Every word I wanted to spit at him crowded in my mouth, burning my tongue. Murderer. Thief. Captor. But when I finally spoke, my voice came out softer than I intended.

“You terrify me.”

Something flickered in his gaze—satisfaction, maybe, or something darker. He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint hint of gunpowder and cedar clinging to his skin.

“Good,” he murmured. “Fear keeps you alive.”

I swallowed hard, gripping the book tighter. “Fear doesn’t mean obedience.”

“You fight me like you think you can win,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I fight because I won’t let you think you’ve won,” I snapped, my voice trembling but steady enough to strike.

His jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, I thought he would walk away, leave me with the false victory of silence. But instead, he took the book from my hands in one smooth motion and set it aside on the nearest table.

Now nothing separated us.

I took another step back, but he followed, slowly and deliberately, a predator drawing out the chase. My back brushed against the bookshelf, the hardwood biting into my spine.

He loomed over me, shadows clinging to his broad frame. His hand came up, not touching me, but resting against the shelf just above my shoulder, caging me in without laying a finger.

“Every day you test me,” he murmured. His breath was warm against my cheek. “Every day you push, thinking I won’t push back.”

“And maybe you won’t,” I whispered, even as my pulse betrayed me, racing.

His mouth tilted, inches from mine. “Maybe I will.”

I should have turned my face away. I should have shoved him back, screamed, cursed, anything. But I stood frozen, my body betraying me, my breath shallow and uneven.

The storm outside cracked, thunder rolling across the sky.

Inside, the storm between us threatened to break.

My pulse pounded as Dante’s arm rested above my head, caging me against the shelf. I could feel the heat of his body, the dangerous steadiness of his breath. He wasn’t touching me, but he might as well have been—his presence pressed against me, heavy and unyielding.

“Move,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

“No.” His answer was quiet, almost calm, but it throbbed with finality.

I shoved at his chest, but it was like pushing against stone. His body didn’t budge. He didn’t even flinch. His eyes darkened, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Don’t,” he said softly, warningly.

The sound of that single word, low and rough, sent a shiver through me. Rage rose hot in my throat, battling the fear. “You can’t keep me here like this. You can’t just—”

“Can’t?” His lip curled slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t lie to both of us, Isabella. You think every time you spit fire at me, it weakens me. But it doesn’t. It feeds me.”

His face was so close now I could see the faint scar along his jawline, the one that disappeared when he clenched his teeth. His gaze dropped again, to my lips, lingering longer this time.

My heart stuttered. No. No, he wouldn’t.

I turned my head slightly, trying to break the line of fire between us. “Stay away from me.”

“Can’t,” he said again. This time, it wasn’t cold. It was rough, dangerous, edged with something I refused to name.

His hand moved—slowly, deliberately—from the shelf above me to the curve of my jaw. His fingers grazed my skin, rough against the softness there, tilting my face back toward him.

I gasped at the touch, the heat of it sparking down my spine. “Don’t—”

But the word dissolved on my lips when his mouth crashed against mine.

The world spun. My hands flew to his chest again, pushing, clawing, but the moment his lips pressed harder, something inside me shattered. The kiss was not tender. It was a storm—violent, consuming, desperate.

His other hand caught my wrist, pinning it against the shelf. I twisted, fighting him, but his grip only tightened. He kissed me harder, his teeth grazing my lower lip, dragging a sound from me, I didn’t recognize.

I hated him for it. I hated myself more.

With a surge of fury, I shoved again, finally breaking free enough to tear my mouth away. My chest heaved, lips tingling, the taste of him still burning on my tongue.

“How dare you,” I spat, voice trembling.

Dante’s eyes blazed, his own breath uneven now. For the first time since I’d known him, he looked less than in control. His gaze raked over me, lingering on my swollen lips, the rise and fall of my chest.

I raised my hand and slapped him. The sound cracked through the library like another bolt of thunder.

His head turned slightly with the force, but he didn’t step back. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his face toward me again, eyes blazing darker than the storm outside.

“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed.

For a moment, I thought he’d strike back. His chest rose and fell like he was holding himself together by threads. But then—slowly, dangerously—his lips curved into a smile that wasn’t a smile at all.

“You’re wrong,” he said softly, almost gently. “I already have.”

The words cut deeper than the kiss.

I pushed past him, shoving his arm away, stumbling out from the cage of his body. My legs trembled, but I forced them to move, forced myself toward the door.

“…your body knows mine already.”

Heat surged through me—rage, humiliation, and something darker, hotter, that I despised myself for feeling.

I yanked the door open and fled down the hall, my breath ragged, my lips burning.

I pressed my back against the wall, clutching my trembling hands to my chest, trying to steady my breath. His taste still lingered, his voice still wrapped around me like chains.

I hated him. I hated him.

And yet…

I didn’t sleep. Not really. I tossed and turned beneath silk sheets that felt more like chains than comfort. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt him again—his mouth crushing mine, his hand pinning my wrist, the heat of him pressing too close.

I hated him. God, I hated him. But my body wouldn’t forget. My lips tingled like they’d been marked. My pulse still jumped when I remembered the rough edge of his voice, whispering that he’d already touched me.

I curled tighter into myself, dragging the blanket up to my chin, as if it could erase the memory. It didn’t.

When dawn finally crept in, pale and cold, I dragged myself from bed. My reflection in the mirror startled me. My lips were still red, swollen. My eyes were wild, rimmed with shadows.

“You’re stronger than this,” I whispered to the girl in the mirror. You don’t belong to him. You never will.”

But even as I said it, I wasn’t sure I believed it.

I made my way to the garden, desperate for air. The storm had passed, leaving the ground damp, the roses beaded with drops of water. The scent of wet earth filled my lungs.

I wanted to disappear into the flowers, into the silence, but I wasn’t alone.

He was there.

Dante stood at the far end of the path, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the storm clouds broke into light. His suit was immaculate again, mask restored, as if last night’s fire hadn’t cracked it.

My stomach clenched. My feet stopped.

He turned.

For a heartbeat, our eyes locked. Something flared in his—recognition, maybe even regret—but it was gone too fast. He strode toward me, every step measured, deliberate.

I wanted to run. But I stood still, fists clenched at my sides.

When he reached me, he stopped just close enough that I felt the pull of him, the command of his presence.

“Did you sleep?” His voice was even, betraying nothing.

I laughed bitterly. “Do you really want to know?”

His gaze lingered on my face, on my mouth. My chest tightened. I wanted to scream at him to stop looking at me like that.

Instead, I said, “You had no right.”

His jaw flexed. “No, right? Do you think rights matter in this world? In my world?”

“I’m not your world,” I snapped, though my voice shook.

He stepped closer, the faintest heat of his brushing against me. “You’re standing in the center of it, Isabella. Whether you like it or not.”

I turned my head, refusing to let him see the tears burning my eyes. “You’ll never have me.”

Silence stretched, sharp and suffocating. Then his voice dropped, quiet enough that it felt like a confession.

“You already burn inside me.”

I froze.

The words hung between us, heavy, dangerous. His face was unreadable, his eyes shadowed, but I knew he meant them.

My chest heaved. I hated him for saying it. I hated myself for the shiver that ran through me.

I shoved past him, storming down the path, my nails biting into my palms. He didn’t stop me. But I felt his eyes on me until I vanished inside the house.