The breath of a ghost
594 Words
The vibration of the club's bass felt like a heartbeat through the velvet wall, but it was the sound of a heavy door creaking open at the end of the corridor that turned my blood to ice.
Laughter. The clink of glasses. Footsteps.
Dante didn’t panic. He was a man born for shadows and secrets. In one fluid motion, he eased me down until my feet touched the floor, his body acting as a massive, immovable shield. I scrambled to pull the emerald silk back over my hips, my hands shaking so violently I could barely smooth the fabric.
"Shh," he breathed into my ear, his hand clamping over my mouth to stifle my ragged gasps.
He turned us both, pressing me into the deepest corner of the alcove just as a group of businessmen rounded the corner, their voices echoing off the polished floors.
"I’m telling you, Rossi is going to love the new terms," one of the men laughed, his voice sounding agonizingly familiar. "If we can just get his lapdog Dante to sign off on the security protocols, we’re golden."
I felt Dante’s entire body go rigid. His hand, still covering my mouth, twitched. His eyes, dark and predatory, watched the silhouettes pass by the end of the hall. He was standing there, his trousers still unzipped, the staggering length of his arousal slowly subsiding as the cold reality of his betrayal hit him.
The men walked past, oblivious to the fact that the "lapdog" they were talking about was pinned against a wall five feet away, fresh from claiming his best friend’s sister.
Once the footsteps faded, Dante let out a breath that sounded like a sob. He didn't look at me. He stepped back, his hands moving with clinical precision to fix his clothes. The "Beast" hadn't just gone back into its cage; it had been doused in a bucket of freezing water.
"That was Marcus’s father’s associate," Dante whispered, his voice sounding hollow. "If he had turned his head three inches to the left..."
"But he didn't," I said, reaching for his hand. "Dante, we're okay."
"No, we aren't." He flinched away from my touch as if I were made of fire. He looked down at the floor, his face pale in the dim light. "We are standing in the dark like criminals, Elena. I just took you in a hallway like a common w***e because I couldn't control myself for five minutes."
The unyielding thickness of his shame was suffocating. He looked at me then, and for the first time, I saw real fear in his eyes. Not fear of Leo, but fear of himself.
"I'm a monster," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "I’m exactly what everyone says I am. I’m the rot in Leo’s life."
He buttoned his jacket, smoothing his lapels until the "Playboy" mask was back in place—but it was crooked. It was cracked. He looked like a man who had just seen his own ghost.
"Go back to the bar. Wait five minutes, then call an Uber," he commanded, his voice back to that cold, distant tone. "I’m leaving through the service exit. Don't look for me."
"Dante, wait—"
"Go, Elena," he hissed, his eyes flashing with a final spark of the Beast's warning. "Before I do something even worse."
He turned and vanished into the darkness of the service stairs, leaving me alone in the corridor, the scent of him still clinging to my skin and the weight of our shared sin heavier than ever.
- Writer
