Beneath His Protection

Chapter 5 – Between Loyalty and Fire

She didn’t mean to crawl into his bed.

But after everything she’d learned—the coded customs records, the death that wasn’t accidental, the way Dante had looked at her like she wasn’t just a girl but a living weapon—Christina couldn’t stand being alone anymore.

She thought he would push her away.

Instead, he let her in.

But what surprised her more was the way he didn’t touch her… not at first.

He just watched her. Like she was some sort of puzzle he wanted to figure out before he destroyed it.

And in the silence of that massive, dark room, she felt something shift between them.

Something neither of them could unfeel.

⸻

In the middle of the night, her hand found his under the sheets.

It was instinct. Comfort. Heat. He didn’t pull away.

She whispered, “Do you always sleep like this? Fully clothed and haunted?”

He let out a low breath—half a laugh, half a growl. “You’re the one in my bed, Christina.”

“I can leave.”

“Don’t,” he said. Firm. Immediate.

Her pulse stuttered.

He turned his face toward her, just inches away. The city lights from the window cast faint shadows across his jawline.

“You have no idea how dangerous it is to tempt a man like me,” he murmured, his voice a low, slow threat wrapped in silk.

“I’m not tempting you.”

“No?” His fingers brushed down the curve of her arm. “Then why aren’t you wearing anything underneath my shirt?”

Her breath hitched.

“Maybe I don’t feel safe enough to sleep in a silk nightgown when I’m trapped with a criminal,” she said, arching a brow.

Dante shifted toward her, just enough that his mouth hovered near hers.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t fall asleep beside one.”

⸻

But he didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

He waited. Watching her like she was a loaded gun aimed straight at his heart.

She was the first to break, whispering, “If I kiss you… you’ll never let me go, will you?”

His answer was a dark promise.

“I never planned to.”

⸻

She didn’t sleep much after that.

Neither did he.

Not because they lost control—but because they both knew they were about to.

⸻

When she woke alone, she ached in places that had nothing to do with touch. The space where he’d laid beside her was still warm.

And on the nightstand, a small envelope.

No name. No seal. Just a photograph.

Her father, young and alive, smiling with a man she didn’t recognize—until she noticed the serpent logo in the background.

And then she flipped it over.

One word in thick black ink: Προδότης.

Traitor.

Christina stood barefoot on the cold marble, the photo trembling in her fingers. That word — traitor — echoed louder than any of Dante’s warnings ever had.

She turned slowly as she heard the familiar sound of footsteps.

But it wasn’t Dante.

It was Enzo, with his usual cold coffee and steel-eyed expression. Except this time, his gaze dipped once—to the hem of her shirt.

She crossed her arms quickly, suddenly aware of how much skin she was showing. “Is something funny?”

“No,” he said. “Just surprised you’re still here. Most people don’t survive two nights in his bed.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t sleep with him.”

Enzo arched a brow. “Didn’t have to. The tension in this place could set the walls on fire.”

Christina ignored the heat rising in her cheeks and handed him the photo. “Who is this?”

Enzo’s smirk faded. He studied the picture, fingers pausing on the ink.

“Your uncle, Giorgos,” he muttered. “He used to work with your father—until he made a deal with the wrong people.”

She took the photo back. “The Serpents.”

Enzo nodded. “Before Dante took control, your father was part of a small group that helped smuggle clean shipments through the docks. Medical supplies, rare metals… nothing major. But Giorgos wanted more.”

“More what?”

“Power. Money. Connections. He started selling intel on rival families. Eventually, he tried selling us out. And that symbol—” he pointed to the coiled serpent, “—means whoever sent this knows it.”

Christina ran a thumb along the torn edge of the photo. “So someone is threatening me?”

“No,” Enzo said. “Someone is testing you. They want to know if you can be turned like your uncle.”

⸻

Back in the office, she searched for anything—records, files, secrets. She needed proof. Her father hadn’t died a traitor.

She was halfway through a locked drawer when she found it. A leather-bound journal, nearly hidden beneath false-bottom folders.

It smelled like home. Dust and cologne and old coffee stains. And on the first page, a note in Greek:

“Για την Κ.”

For K.

For her.

Her hands shook as she flipped through the entries. Most were coded references, numbers, port dates, crate numbers. But then she saw it — the name Serpents written beside a single word in English.

Betrayal.

And beneath that:

“Trust no one. Not even the man you sleep beside.”

Her breath caught.

⸻

The door clicked.

She snapped the journal shut as Dante stepped inside, eyes locking with hers immediately. He wasn’t alone — his jacket hung open, his black shirt clinging to his chest like he’d just come from hell and back.

“I told you not to go through that drawer,” he said coolly.

“You didn’t tell me much of anything,” she fired back.

He moved closer, and with every step, she could feel the weight of his presence pressing into her like a storm.

“What else did you find?” he asked.

Christina held up the journal. “Something worth burning.”

“You should,” he said, walking right up to her. “But you won’t.”

His fingers brushed her wrist, slow, firm, possessive. “Because you want the truth almost as badly as you want to trust me.”

She didn’t pull away.

“I don’t trust anyone,” she whispered.

“Then we have something in common.”

⸻

His eyes dropped to her lips.

Her pulse thundered in her throat.

“Tell me why my father died,” she said.

Dante’s expression darkened. “Because he protected me. And because your uncle betrayed him.”

“Then why the hell am I here?”

His voice dropped, quiet and dangerous: “Because you’re the only leverage left. And the only person who makes me hesitate.”

She felt the heat in his words, felt the unspoken desire simmering between them like electricity.

“If I kissed you now,” she whispered, “what would you do?”

He stepped even closer, his mouth a breath from hers. “I’d ruin you.”

“Promise?”

He growled low in his throat.

And then, finally, he kissed her.

Dante’s mouth crushed against hers like he’d been waiting years for that moment.

There was no hesitation — no soft, shy beginning.

It was hunger. Raw. Controlled only by the tension of a man who knew how to kill with his hands… and now wanted to use them to worship instead.

Christina didn’t hold back either. She was done being afraid, done pretending she didn’t want him.

Her fingers slid into his hair, pulling him closer, drinking him in like he was the only thing real in a world of lies and blood.

His body pressed against hers, pinning her to the edge of the desk. The leather journal slid to the floor, forgotten.

“I warned you,” he growled against her mouth.

She gasped, tilting her head back as his lips traced the column of her throat. “Do you always kiss women like they belong to you?”

“No,” he rasped. “Only the ones who do.”

⸻

His hands found the hem of her shirt—his shirt—and slid beneath it with a low, possessive groan.

“You’ve been wearing this all day?” he asked against her collarbone, his voice rough.

She nodded, breathless. “Didn’t have anything else.”

He laughed once, dark and low. “You have no idea what that did to me.”

She shivered as his hands gripped her thighs and lifted her onto the desk in one smooth, controlled motion. Her legs parted, instinctively wrapping around his hips. She could feel him—hard and ready—pressing against the thin fabric between them.

Christina’s breath hitched. “Then do something about it.”

He froze.

Their eyes met.

And that was when she saw it: the war behind his desire. The part of him that wanted her, and the part that knew once he had her, he wouldn’t be able to let go.

He cupped her face, thumb tracing her lower lip. “If we do this…”

“We are doing this,” she whispered.

“…then you’re mine.”

⸻

But before the fire could fully take them, a sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.

Dante’s body went rigid. A second later, his phone buzzed — once, twice. Emergency code.

He swore under his breath and stepped back, his hands dropping from her body like he was forcing himself to let go of a drug.

“Stay here,” he said. His voice was tight. Controlled. Dangerous.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s been a breach at the East Warehouse. Possible Serpent activity.”

He grabbed his gun and holster without another word. But just before he disappeared through the door, he turned back—his eyes blazing.

“We’re not done.”

Christina sat on the desk, heart racing, lips swollen, body aching.

And she knew he meant it.

⸻

Alone again, she climbed down and retrieved the journal from the floor. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from adrenaline. From him.

But when she opened the journal again, something slipped out — a thin photograph, folded twice, hidden between pages like a secret meant never to be found.

She unfolded it slowly.

It wasn’t just any photo.

It was a passport.

A fake one.

With her face.

And a different name.

Beneath it was a single, handwritten note:

“If this ever reaches you, don’t trust Giorgos. Don’t trust the Serpents. And for God’s sake, don’t fall for Moretti.”

⸻

She stared at the words in disbelief.

Because it was signed:

Your father.