Chapter 2 – The Hunt Begins
1280 Words
Amara thought she could disappear. She really did. After the night with Dante, after the rush, after the burning heat of his hands and the taste of his mouth still lingering on hers, she had imagined waking the next morning, slipping back into her routine, and forgetting. Just forgetting.
But men like Dante Moretti did not forget.
She tried to convince herself of that as she walked across campus, her backpack heavy against her shoulders, her heart hammering with every shadow that seemed to move too quickly. She kept her head down, pretending to text on her phone, listening to the faint echo of her own breathing in the crisp autumn air.
It was just one night.
She repeated it like a mantra, but it rang hollow. Every laugh in the cafeteria made her jump. Every glance from a male classmate made her tense. And every moment she felt free, a nagging pulse in her gut reminded her that Dante was out there, somewhere, hunting for her.
She had no idea how she knew. She just did.
And then, she saw him.
From across the quad, leaning casually against the hood of a sleek black car, Dante’s silver-gold eyes caught hers before she even realized she was looking. He didn’t smile. He didn’t approach. He simply stared, as if measuring the exact distance between them, assessing her, evaluating her escape. The hair at the nape of her neck stood on end.
No… no, it can’t be him, she thought, spinning on her heel and walking briskly toward the library. Her heels clicked on the pavement, betraying her panic. She tried to blend into the crowd of students, but every instinct told her that he could see right through her. That he could always see right through her.
Inside the library, she slid into a corner, pulling her hoodie over her head, hiding her face behind her hair. She tried to focus on her studies, on the textbooks stacked in front of her, but her mind refused. Instead, it wandered back to that night—Dante’s hands, the way he had taken control, the rough whisper of his voice in her ear as he murmured things she hadn’t known she wanted to hear.
She had kissed him first, she reminded herself. She had made the choice. She had wanted it… maybe even craved it. But that didn’t mean she wanted this. That didn’t mean she wanted him stalking her, consuming her thoughts, haunting every quiet corner of her life.
Her phone buzzed. She jumped, nearly knocking over her coffee.
Unknown number.
She hesitated, thumb hovering over the green icon. Her pulse quickened. It can’t be him. It’s just a wrong number.
“Amara.”
The voice was low, velvet-coated steel. Her body froze. The library suddenly felt suffocating. Her knees threatened to buckle. She could feel it—the same dangerous heat from that night, the same possessive force that had claimed her body, now reaching across miles to claim her mind.
“Who is this?” she whispered, voice barely audible.
“You know who,” he said simply. There was no amusement in his tone this time, no playfulness. Only command. Possession. Ownership. “Stop pretending you can hide from me. I know where you are. I know what you’re doing. And I will find you.”
Her fingers trembled as she gripped the phone. “I… I don’t want this. I don’t want you—”
“You belong to me, Amara.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. Her chest tightened, breath catching. He hadn’t even touched her yet, and she already felt trapped, bound, and exposed.
Before she could respond, he hung up.
Her hands shook, her vision blurred. She had thought she could escape. She had thought she could breathe again. But the reality was stark and terrifying: Dante Moretti did not let go.
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Over the next few days, Amara tried everything. She changed her schedule. She avoided the usual coffee shops. She even considered switching her dorm room. She thought she could run. She thought she could hide.
But every time her phone buzzed with a new message, every time she caught a shadow in the corner of her eye, she knew it was him. Dante Moretti is hunting me, she realized. And for the first time, the fear she had ignored—the fear she had drowned in tequila and reckless passion—returned with full force.
One evening, she decided to escape the suffocating tension of her dorm. She went to a small, quiet bar a few blocks away, hoping the anonymity of the dim lighting and low crowd would offer some relief.
It did not.
Dante was there.
He leaned casually against the bar, a dark figure of authority and danger. A gun lay discreetly at his hip, his posture relaxed, but every movement exuded threat. His gaze fixed on her as if she were prey caught in a trap she didn’t even see.
Amara froze, her stomach twisting. How does he keep finding me?
He didn’t approach immediately. He let the tension stretch, long and suffocating. Then, finally, he walked toward her, each step deliberate, measured, impossibly commanding.
“You’re defiant,” he murmured when he reached her, so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “I like that… but you can’t escape. Not from me. Not from what’s already mine.”
Her pulse raced. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. But a part of her—terrifyingly, maddeningly—wanted him too. Wanted the danger. Wanted the possessiveness. Wanted the dark obsession that made her heart hammer and her body ache for him again.
“You’re insane,” she whispered, trying to shove past him.
“I’m yours,” he said, voice low and sharp, almost a growl. “You don’t get to choose. You belong to me. You always have. One night… one taste… that was mine, and nothing—not your life, not your fear—changes that.”
Her legs threatened to give way. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions: fear, desire, regret, fascination. She wanted to disappear, wanted to vanish from his reach, but he was everywhere at once—inside her mind, burning in her blood, impossible to outrun.
Before she could think, he pressed her against the wall, his hands firm on her shoulders. The world fell away. His lips grazed her ear, warm and commanding.
“You’re mine, Amara. And I’m not letting go.”
And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the bar, leaving her trembling, heart racing, and terrified of how much she craved him.
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That night, alone in her dorm, Amara replayed every detail of their encounter over and over in her head. She hated herself for wanting him. She hated herself for thinking about his hands, his mouth, the dangerous warmth of his body. She hated the power he had over her—even in his absence.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
The following morning, a new message appeared on her phone:
“Meet me. Midnight. The rooftop of your dorm. Alone.”
Her breath caught. Her hands shook. Part of her wanted to delete it, to burn the phone, to disappear forever. But another part—a darker, desperate, thrilling part—wanted to go. Wanted to see him. Wanted to feel that obsession, that danger, that you belong to me energy again.
Amara knew, deep down, that going would change everything. And yet, the thought of refusing him felt impossible.
Because she already belonged to him.
- Writer
