Chapter 2: First Night in Hell
1568 Words
Elena followed him because the alternative—curling up on cold marble like discarded trash—was worse than whatever waited down that shadowed hallway.
Her bare feet padded silently behind Dante’s polished shoes. Each step echoed in the cavernous penthouse like a countdown. She hated how her body betrayed her: pulse racing not just from fear, but from the memory of his thumb on her lip, the hard press of him against her stomach, the way his voice had dropped to velvet gravel when he promised to make her beg.
She was not going to beg.
She repeated it like a mantra. I will not beg. I will not break. I will find a way out.
The hallway opened into a wing that felt more private than the rest of the fortress. Black walls, gold-veined marble floors, recessed lighting that cast everything in sinful amber. He pushed open double doors without slowing.
The bedroom was obscene.
A massive bed dominated the center—black silk sheets, four posts carved like twisted thorns, big enough for three people and probably used that way more than once. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city lights like a private galaxy. A sitting area with deep leather chairs faced a fireplace that wasn’t lit. One wall was all mirrors. Another held a discreet door she guessed led to a bathroom the size of her old apartment.
Dante didn’t stop until he reached the foot of the bed. He turned, arms crossed, studying her like she was art he’d just acquired and wasn’t sure where to hang yet.
“Strip.”
The word landed like a slap.
Elena’s arms flew across her chest instinctively. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His tone was calm, almost bored. “You smell like cheap apartment and fear. I don’t like either on my things.”
“I’m not your thing.”
He stepped closer. One long stride and the space between them vanished. She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Up close he was overwhelming—heat radiating off him, cologne wrapping around her like smoke, the faint scar at the corner of his mouth that she suddenly wanted to trace with her tongue.
No. Stop.
“You are tonight,” he said softly. “And every night until I decide otherwise.” His fingers caught the hem of her thin sleep shirt. Not pulling. Just holding. Waiting. “I could rip this off you. Or you can take it off yourself. Choice is yours—for now.”
Her breath came shallow. She searched his face for cruelty, for mockery. There was heat there, dark and hungry, but no mockery. Just… patience. The kind a hunter has when the prey is already cornered.
She hated that it made her feel seen.
“I’m not sleeping naked in your bed.”
“You’re not sleeping in my bed.” He jerked his chin toward a smaller door she hadn’t noticed—half-hidden beside the mirrors. “You have your own room. For now. But first, shower. Then we talk.”
Talk. The word sounded almost civilized. Almost safe.
She didn’t trust it.
But she also didn’t trust her legs to keep holding her up much longer.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m keeping the door locked.”
His laugh was low, dark. “There are no locks in my house, little bird. Not for you.”
He released her shirt and stepped back, giving her just enough space to breathe.
“Five minutes,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”
She fled into the smaller room before he could change his mind.
The bathroom was worse than the bedroom.
Black marble, gold fixtures, a shower big enough for a party. Rain-head nozzles. A bench. A glass wall that offered zero privacy. She locked the door anyway—childish, pointless—and stripped with shaking hands.
The hot water hit like punishment and salvation at once. She stood under it until her skin turned pink, trying to scrub away the feel of his gaze, the zip-tie marks, the humiliation of being delivered like takeout.
But under the steam, something else rose—unwanted, traitorous heat between her thighs. She pressed her forehead to the cool tile and cursed herself. This was Stockholm syndrome on fast-forward. Nothing more.
She stayed too long. When she finally stepped out, wrapped in one of the plush black towels she found, the mirror was fogged. She wiped a stripe clear and stared at her reflection: wide eyes, flushed cheeks, wet hair clinging to her shoulders. She looked… vulnerable. She hated it.
When she opened the bathroom door, Dante was gone from the bedroom.
Relief crashed through her—followed immediately by dread when she saw the outfit laid across the foot of the big bed.
Not lingerie. Thank God.
A man’s black silk button-down—way too big for her—and a pair of soft gray lounge pants that looked brand new, tags still attached. No underwear.
Of course.
She slipped into them anyway. The shirt swallowed her, sleeves falling past her fingertips, hem brushing mid-thigh. It smelled like him—smoke, cedar, something dangerously masculine. She hated how much she liked it.
Barefoot, hair dripping, she padded back into the main bedroom.
He was there now—sitting in one of the leather chairs by the unlit fireplace, legs spread, elbows on his knees, another glass of whiskey in his hand. He’d shed his jacket and tie. The top three buttons of his dress shirt were open, revealing a glimpse of inked chest and the hard line of his collarbone.
He looked up. Slowly. From her bare feet, up her legs, lingering where the shirt gaped slightly at her chest, then finally to her face.
“Better,” he murmured.
She crossed her arms. “Where’s my room?”
He pointed with his glass toward another door across the sitting area. “Through there. Bed made. Clothes in the closet. Everything you need.”
She didn’t move. “And what do you want in return?”
His eyes darkened. “Obedience.”
She laughed—sharp, bitter. “You bought me. That doesn’t mean I’m going to roll over.”
He set the glass down. Rose. Crossed the room in three strides.
This time he didn’t stop until her back hit the wall beside the doorframe. Not touching her. Caging her with his body and his presence.
“I don’t need you to roll over,” he said, voice so low it vibrated through her bones. “I need you to yield. There’s a difference.”
One hand planted beside her head. The other lifted a wet strand of hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear—gentle, almost reverent.
“You’re terrified,” he whispered. “And wet.”
Her breath caught. “I’m not—”
“Don’t lie to me.” His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “I can smell it. Taste it in the air. Your body’s already deciding what your mind won’t admit.”
She turned her face away. “You’re disgusting.”
“Am I?” He leaned in until his lips grazed her ear. “Or are you just ashamed that the monster who owns you makes your p***y ache?”
Heat exploded low in her belly. She clenched her thighs together—too late. He noticed.
A low, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest.
“Tomorrow,” he said, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes, “you’ll have breakfast with me. You’ll wear what I choose. You’ll sit where I tell you. And if you’re very good…” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I might kiss you.”
She swallowed. “And if I’m not?”
His smile was slow. Sinful. “Then I’ll teach you why they call me the Devil.”
He stepped away.
Just like that.
Left her trembling against the wall, n*****s tight against silk, core throbbing with shameful need.
“Go to bed, Elena,” he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the main doors. “Dream of me. Because I’ll be dreaming of all the ways I’m going to ruin you.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
She stood there for a long minute, breathing hard, fists clenched.
Then she stumbled into the smaller bedroom he’d pointed out.
It was beautiful. Soft gray walls. A queen bed with crisp white sheets. A window seat overlooking the city. A closet full of clothes—dresses, jeans, lingerie, all in her size.
She locked that door too. Pointless.
Crawled under the covers still wearing his shirt.
And when she closed her eyes, she didn’t dream of escape.
She dreamed of dark eyes and filthy promises.
Of strong hands pinning her wrists.
Of a low voice whispering mine against her throat.
And when she woke in the middle of the night—sweaty, aching, fingers already slipping between her legs—she bit her lip until it bled so she wouldn’t moan his name.
She hated him.
She hated herself more.
Because deep down, in the darkest part of her, she was already wondering how long she could hold out before she begged him to make the dream real.
And Dante Moretti?
He was counting the hours.
- Writer
