I'M HIS ALONE

CHAPTER 12

THE PAINTING

The kiss in the conservatory led to more kisses—against the wall of the library, on the balcony under the stars, in the garden among the roses. Each one built on the last, growing deeper, hotter, more desperate. Dante's hands roamed her body with increasing boldness, learning her curves, memorizing her responses, finding every spot that made her gasp and moan.

But they hadn't gone further. Not yet.

Bella wasn't ready, and to her surprise, Dante seemed content to wait. He had made his desire abundantly clear—the hard evidence of his arousal pressed against her whenever they embraced, the ragged quality of his breathing, the way his eyes darkened to near-black with need. But he never pushed, never demanded, never made her feel guilty for setting the pace.

It was maddening. And incredibly sexy.

A week after the conservatory dinner, Dante found her in the library, curled up on a window seat with a book on Renaissance art. He stood in the doorway for a moment, just watching her, a small smile playing at his lips.

"There's something I want to show you," he said.

"Another surprise?"

"The best one yet." He extended his hand. "Come with me."

He led her to the second floor, to a wing she hadn't been permitted to enter before. At the end of the hallway was a set of double doors, which Dante unlocked with a key from his pocket.

"The private gallery," he announced, pushing the doors open.

Bella stepped inside and gasped.

The room was a cathedral of art. High ceilings, climate-controlled environment, museum-quality lighting that made each piece glow with an inner radiance. Paintings lined every wall—masterpieces that Bella had only seen in textbooks and documentaries. A Botticelli that made her heart skip. A Vermeer that seemed to capture actual moonlight. A Rembrandt portrait so lifelike she expected the subject to blink.

"Oh my God," she breathed, moving from piece to piece in awe. "Dante, these are... these are incredible."

"My family's collection," he said, watching her with undisguised pleasure. "Generations of acquisitions. Some bought, some... acquired through other means."

Bella barely heard him. She was too absorbed in the art, in the brushstrokes and color palettes and the sheer genius of the masters. She moved from painting to painting, identifying artists, periods, techniques, her academic mind firing on all cylinders.

"This is a Caravaggio," she said, stopping before a dramatic scene of Judith beheading Holofernes. "The original was lost for centuries, but this... this looks authentic."

"It is. Found in a private collection in Sicily, purchased at auction five years ago." Dante stood beside her, his arm brushing hers. "You have an excellent eye."

"I've studied Caravaggio extensively. His use of chiaroscuro—the contrast between light and dark—was revolutionary. He painted light as a physical force, something that carved shape and meaning out of darkness." She turned to Dante, her eyes shining. "He understood that you can't have one without the other. That light only matters because of the dark surrounding it."

Dante was staring at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Is that how you see me, Bella? As darkness?"

She hesitated, then answered honestly. "I see you as both. The man who kidnapped me, who took everything from me—that's the darkness. But the man who shares his art collection, who asks about my mother, who holds me like I'm fragile and precious—that's the light." She reached up, her fingers tracing the scar on his jaw. "I think you're still figuring out which one is stronger."

Dante caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "You make me want to be the light, Bella. Only you."

He led her to the center of the gallery, where a painting stood covered by a velvet cloth. With a flourish, he pulled the cloth away, revealing a portrait that made Bella's breath catch.

It was her. Or rather, a woman who looked exactly like her—emerald eyes, dark hair, creamy skin—painted in the style of the Pre-Raphaelites, surrounded by flowers and bathed in golden light. She was depicted seated in a garden, wearing a white gown, looking off into the distance with an expression that was both hopeful and melancholic.

"Dante," Bella whispered. "When did you...?"

"I commissioned it the day after I met you," he said quietly. "Described you to the artist from memory. Had it finished in secret." He turned to her, his eyes vulnerable. "I wanted to see you like this. Immortalized. Beautiful. Mine, even if only on canvas."

Bella stared at the painting, overwhelmed. It was exquisite—a masterpiece in its own right, capturing not just her likeness but something of her spirit, her essence. The artist had seen her through Dante's eyes, and the result was breathtaking.

"It's beautiful," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm beautiful in it."

"You're beautiful everywhere, Bella. But yes—this is how I see you. How I'll always see you." He took her hand, leading her closer to the painting. "The artist asked what I wanted the theme to be. I told him... Persephone. The goddess who was taken to the underworld but became its queen."

Bella turned to him, her heart hammering. "You think I'm Persephone?"

"I think you're more powerful than you know, Bella. I think you could rule the underworld beside me and make it a paradise." His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "I think you already have."

She kissed him then, with a passion that surprised them both. Not the tentative kisses of before, but something deeper, hungrier, more demanding. Dante responded instantly, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her, and Bella moaned against his lips, her fingers tangling in his hair.

"Bella," he groaned, his hands sliding down her back to grip her hips. "God, I want you. I want you so much."

"Then take me," she whispered, shocking herself with her own boldness. "Take me, Dante. I'm ready."

Dante went still, his eyes searching hers. "Are you sure? Because if we do this, Bella—if I have you, truly have you—there's no going back. I'll never let you go. Never. You'll be mine in every way a woman can belong to a man."

Bella looked at him—the painting of her behind him, the art surrounding them, the evidence of his obsession everywhere—and made her choice.

"I'm already yours, Dante. I think I have been since the moment you saw me."

His eyes flared with dark fire, and then he was kissing her again, lifting her into his arms, carrying her toward a door at the back of the gallery. Beyond it was a private sitting room—a couch, a fireplace, soft lighting. He laid her down like she was made of glass, his body covering hers, his mouth never leaving hers.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he murmured against her neck. "At any point. I'll stop. I swear to God, Bella, I'll stop."

"I won't want to stop," she gasped as his lips found the sensitive spot behind her ear. "Don't stop, Dante. Please, don't stop."

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