Chapter 5
936 Words
The sound of his declaration still hung in the air, a phantom vibration against her skin. The lesson is no longer postponed. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run, to hide, to submit. But a deeper, fiercer part, the part her stepmother had tried so hard to break, roared to life.
It wasn’t a conscious decision. It was pure, unadulterated reflex.
A guttural sound tore from her throat, a blend of fury and fear, and she launched herself at him. Her fist, small but fueled by a lifetime of pent-up rage, connected with the hard line of his jaw.
The impact reverberated up her arm, a shocking, painful jolt. It was like punching marble.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Dante didn’t even stagger. He just stood there, absorbing the blow, his head turned slightly from the force. The silence that followed was more terrifying than any shout.
Then, slowly, he turned his face back to hers. A faint, red mark bloomed on his jawline. His grey eyes, which moments before had been raging, now went utterly, terrifyingly still. A predator assessed a threat he had not anticipated.
The stupidest thing you have ever done, a voice shrieked in her head.
He moved.
It wasn’t a grab; it was a capture. His hands locked around her wrists like manacles, his grip impossibly strong, crushing. She cried out, more in shock than pain, as he used her own momentum against her, spinning her around and pulling her back flush against his chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the solid wall of his body.
“Let me go!” she spat, writhing in his hold, her elbows jabbing backwards.
His arms banded around her, pinning her arms to her sides. He was immovable. He smelled of night, of cold city air, and that faint, unsettling metallic scent that was all him. His breath was warm against her ear.
“No.” The single word was low, a soft rumble that vibrated through her. “You threw the first punch, little fighter. Now, you face the consequences.”
She struggled harder, a wild animal caught in a trap, but his strength was absolute. He was all hard, muscles, and unyielding control. With a deft shift of his weight, he walked her backwards until her knees hit the edge of the plush bed. He didn’t throw her down. He simply applied relentless pressure until she lost her balance and tumbled onto the mattress, bouncing once on the soft duvet.
She scrambled backwards, kicking out at him, but he was already there, a dark shadow blotting out the light. He caught her ankle in one hand, his fingers circling the delicate bone. The touch was electric, a brand of ownership that made her freeze.
“Stop fighting me, Arabella,” he commanded, his voice dropping into that hypnotic, rough timbre that seemed to bypass her brain and speak directly to her spine.
“I will never stop fighting you,” she gasped, though her struggles had stilled. Her chest heaved. Liar, a traitorous part of her, whispered. A part that was acutely aware of the heat of his hand on her skin, the way his thumb was stroking a slow, absent circle on her ankle.
He looked down at her, a strange expression flickering in his cold eyes. It wasn’t anger anymore. It was… calculation. Curiosity. A hunter intrigued by the spirit of his prey.
“We’ll see,” he murmured, almost to himself.
He released her ankle, but before she could move, he placed a hand flat on her stomach, right over the frantic flutter of her pulse. The weight of it was shocking, intimate. It held her in place more effectively than any restraint. Her thin camisole was no barrier against the heat of his palm.
He leaned over her, caging her in. The smudge of soot on his cuff was right beside her face. This close, she could see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the dark stubble shadowing his jaw where her fist had landed. His gaze dropped to her mouth.
Her breath hitched. He’s going to kiss me. The thought was a lightning strike of panic and something else, something hot and unwelcome that coiled low in her belly. Her lips parted, a silent gasp.
But he didn’t.
He hovered, a hair’s breadth away, letting the anticipation build until the air between them was thick with it. She could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with hers. Every nerve ending was on fire, screaming for a touch that didn’t come.
“This fire of yours,” he whispered, his eyes locked on hers. “I will let it burn. And then, Arabella… I will own the ashes.”
The promise in his words was Darker, more intimate than any kiss could have been. It was a vow of total possession.
A sharp rap sounded at the door.
Dante didn’t startle. He didn’t even look away from her. He simply let out a slow, controlled breath, his frustration a tangible force in the room.
“What?” he barked, his voice returning to its usual icy command, though he didn’t move from above her.
The door opened a crack. Silas stood there, his rugged face impassive, though his eyes took in the scene in a single, efficient sweep—Dante poised over a prone and breathless Arabella—without a flicker of reaction
“Petrov is on the secure line,” Silas said, his voice a gravelly contrast to Dante’s silken threat. “He’s… impatient.”
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