Chapter 4 – Claiming What’s His
1067 Words
Amara didn’t sleep that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Dante’s silver-gold gaze, felt the heat of his body pressed against hers, the rough brush of his hands along her skin. She had convinced herself she could run, disappear into her normal life, but the truth was cruel and undeniable: he had left a mark on her that no distance could erase.
The next morning, as sunlight spilled into her dorm room, she froze at the bathroom mirror. Her stomach had shifted in the night—not dramatically, but enough. The subtle tightness, the faint nausea that whispered beneath her ribs, sent a cold wave of panic through her. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, heart hammering.
No… not now. Not like this. I can’t…
Her phone buzzed before she could even think, and her chest tightened. She didn’t need to look at it to know. The name flashing on the screen made her stomach drop.
Dante Moretti
Her thumb hovered over the green button. She wanted to ignore it, delete it, pretend she was unreachable. But something inside her—a dangerous, addictive part she had tried to suppress—made her press “Answer.”
“Where are you?” he demanded immediately, his voice low, commanding.
“I’m… at the library,” she whispered, though she wasn’t. She had only paused in her dorm room, pretending to be somewhere safe.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, and she could hear the faint shuffle of movement behind him, the telltale presence of his men. “I know where you are. You can’t hide. Not from me. Not ever. You belong to me, Amara.”
Her pulse surged. She wanted to argue, to shout, to scream that she wasn’t his, that she could choose. But the truth crushed her: she already was his. One night, one kiss, one body pressed into hers had been enough. He had claimed her, and there was no undoing it.
“I… I need space,” she whispered, voice trembling.
“You don’t get to dictate terms,” he snapped, sharp and dangerous. “I decide. I am the only one who decides. You will come to me.”
Her knees went weak. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he cut her off, his tone velvet and steel all at once. “Because I said so. Midnight. My car. Don’t be late. And don’t even think about trying to escape.”
---
By the time midnight arrived, Amara’s anxiety was a living thing, coiling inside her. She felt trapped, caught in a storm of fear, desire, and confusion. Her stomach knotted again, faint but undeniable. She couldn’t ignore it any longer.
She climbed into the sleek black car Dante had ordered, silence stretching between them like a living thing. The city lights passed in a blur, but she barely noticed. Every nerve in her body was on edge.
Finally, he spoke. “You’re tense,” he observed, gaze sharp, hands gripping the steering wheel. “Why? Something wrong?”
Her pulse spiked. Does he know? Does he know already?
“I… I don’t feel… well,” she admitted, her voice small. “I think… maybe something’s wrong with me.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his hand found hers, large, warm, and impossible to resist. His thumb traced her knuckles with a possessive insistence that made her shiver.
“You’re mine,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “And nothing… nothing will ever harm you without my knowledge. Do you understand?”
She nodded, swallowing hard. But the tension in her chest didn’t ease. If he knew… if he suspected… everything could change.
---
They arrived at his penthouse, a fortress of black glass and steel. Dante didn’t give her a chance to settle. He took her into the dimly lit living room, where the faint scent of expensive leather and subtle incense wrapped around her. The city sprawled beneath them, unaware of the storm inside the penthouse.
He closed the door behind her and immediately pressed her against it, his hands firm on her waist. “Look at me,” he commanded.
She did, and her stomach twisted. His silver-gold eyes burned into her, reading her in ways she didn’t want to be read.
“You’re hiding something,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I can feel it. Don’t lie. Not to me. Not to me, Amara. Say it.”
Her pulse raced. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Fear and shame tangled with desire. How can I tell him? How can I admit it?
“I… I think… something’s wrong,” she whispered finally. “I… I missed my period.”
The words barely left her lips before Dante’s hands tightened on her hips, pulling her flush against him. “You’re mine,” he murmured again, voice rough, desperate. “Do you understand what that means, Amara?”
She swallowed hard, trembling. “I… I… don’t know…”
“You don’t need to know,” he said. “Because whatever it is, whatever you’re carrying… it belongs to me. All of it. Every part of you. And I won’t let go.”
His lips found hers again, rough and commanding. She tried to resist, tried to push back, but the truth was crushing and undeniable: she wanted him. She needed him. She couldn’t escape the possession, the obsession, the fire that he ignited every time he touched her.
And when his hands slid beneath her shirt, claiming her in the dim light of the penthouse, Amara lost herself completely. Every moan, every gasp, every tremor of her body was a surrender, a confession, a declaration. She was his—entirely, irrevocably, and dangerously.
---
Hours later, they lay together, tangled in sheets, hearts pounding. Dante pressed a possessive kiss to her collarbone. “You’re mine,” he whispered once more. “You will never be free of me. And I don’t care how much you fight it.”
Amara’s body shook—not from fear, not from regret—but from the addictive, overwhelming, impossible pull of desire he held over her. She tried to hide it, tried to bury the truth of her missed period, but she couldn’t. And she knew—deep down—that Dante would find out.
Because he always did.
- Writer
