His To Ruin

CHAPTER 10 - MARKS HIS CLAIM

The mansion’s grand dining hall was alive with whispers, the clinking of glasses, and the subtle hum of power. Guests, allies, and some enemies filled the room, their eyes darting between each other like hawks, sensing the tension that never truly left Dante Moretti’s presence.

Emilia Russo stood near the back, trying to keep her posture straight, her pulse hammering with anticipation and fear. The last few days had been a whirlwind: intruders, sabotage from Bianca, and the chilling, calculated presence of Lillian Navarro. She had survived, barely, and the constant, magnetic pull of Dante Moretti weighed on her heart and mind.

Dante, as always, moved like a shadow through the room, commanding attention without needing to speak. His presence alone made people step back, rearranging themselves in recognition of his dominance. But tonight, his focus was singular. Emilia could feel it, even from across the hall, the weight of his gaze pressing against her chest.

And she hated how much she loved it.

Bianca, predictably, lingered near him, draped in elegance, her jealousy simmering under the surface. Lillian, having infiltrated Dante’s sphere with subtlety, had not yet made a move tonight—but Emilia could sense her presence, as though danger had a shape, a posture, a smell.

Dante finally approached Emilia, his steps measured, predatory. The room seemed to shrink around them. He stopped just close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, his dark eyes locking with hers. The air between them was electric, charged with desire, obsession, and unspoken tension.

“You will stand by me,” he said quietly, so only she could hear. “No matter what happens tonight.”

“I… I will,” she whispered, her pulse racing, her body reacting before her mind could catch up.

Good. She needed to understand that she wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was becoming part of his world, and part of that meant being seen—acknowledged—as his.

The first part of the night passed in a tense blur of political maneuvering, subtle threats, and whispered negotiations. Guests approached Dante, some with veiled intentions, others with genuine respect. Emilia followed, silently observing, aware that every move, every glance, was a test of her resolve.

And then the moment came.

A well-known associate, notorious for underestimating Dante’s authority, stepped too close to Emilia, smirking, testing boundaries. “And who is this?” he asked loudly, his tone laced with condescension. “Your… companion?”

The room seemed to pause, eyes flicking between Dante and Emilia. Emilia’s stomach dropped, panic clawing at her. She had no intention of being humiliated, of being reduced to an object of discussion in this dangerous room.

Dante’s response was lethal. He stepped in front of her, his presence like a blade cutting through the air. “This is Emilia Russo,” he said, his voice low, dark, and impossibly commanding. “She belongs to me.”

The words were simple, but the effect was devastating. The room went silent. Gasps whispered through the crowd. Eyes widened in shock. And Emilia’s pulse thundered in her ears.

Belongs to me.

Her body reacted before her mind could process. Heat surged through her, a mix of fear, desire, and the strange thrill of being claimed in a world where claims were made with consequences. She hated that she wanted it. Hated that the possessive, dark authority in his eyes made her pulse race and her breath hitch.

The man who had questioned her now stumbled back, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Dante’s gaze returned to Emilia, dark, intense, unwavering. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” she whispered, barely audible. Her voice trembled—not from fear, not entirely, but from the sheer force of the moment. She had been claimed, not just verbally, but in a way that carried power, obsession, and a dangerous intimacy.

Bianca’s expression darkened. Her jealousy, previously simmering, erupted into barely concealed fury. Lillian, too, observed silently, calculating, noting the bond between Dante and Emilia—a bond she intended to exploit.

Dante didn’t stop there. He leaned closer to Emilia, his lips almost brushing her ear, his voice a low, predatory whisper. “You are mine. No one will touch you. No one will threaten you. And no one will take what belongs to me.”

Emilia’s body reacted with a shiver that ran down her spine. Desire, fear, and exhilaration tangled inside her, leaving her breathless. The moment was both terrifying and intoxicating. She hated how much power he had over her emotions, how deeply his obsession had already rooted itself inside her.

As the evening progressed, Dante remained by her side, a constant presence, a shield against potential threats. Every subtle touch, every protective glance, was a reminder of his claim. Marco watched from a distance, tense, protective—but ultimately subordinate to Dante’s authority. Bianca fumed quietly, her plans for sabotage temporarily stalled under Dante’s dominance.

Emilia, standing beside Dante, felt a dangerous sense of belonging. For the first time since she had been thrust into this world, she understood that survival wasn’t enough. To thrive, she had to navigate the obsession, desire, and danger intertwined with Dante Moretti himself.

And as the night ended, with guests leaving and shadows reclaiming the mansion, Emilia Russo realized something undeniable:

She had been claimed.

She had been marked.

And there was no turning back.

Her life, her heart, and her very desires were now irrevocably entangled with the most dangerous man she had ever known. And Dante… Dante was as lethal as he was magnetic, as possessive as he was intoxicating, and he would stop at nothing to ensure that what was his remained his.