Blood and Desire

9.Isabella Romano

The door creaked open slowly. My whole body stiffened. That simple, ordinary sound made my heart race as if it were gunfire exploding again in my head. My eyes darted to the doorway, and there he was. Dante Vitalle.

The memory cut through me like a sharpened blade: blood splattered across the floor, a lifeless body collapsing before me, the gunshot still echoing in my ears. I had never seen someone die before. And I had never seen someone kill with such coldness.

He entered in silence, his steps steady, measured, as if every move had been calculated to impose dominance. He carried himself with the weight of someone who never needed to rush—because the world always bowed before he had to.

Beside me, Sofia—sweet, careful, still a stranger, yet one who had welcomed me with kind words that morning—flinched as well. But unlike me, she seemed used to it. There was no terror in her eyes, only respect. Or was it resignation?

“Leave.” His voice sliced through the air like a military command.

Sofia hesitated for a moment, glanced at me as if she wanted to shield me, but there was nothing she could do. She only nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

I was alone with him.

My heart pounded so violently it felt like it might burst out of my throat. I dared look at him for only a second before dropping my gaze. I didn’t want him to see the fear in my eyes—though I knew he already had. Dante seemed to see right into people’s souls, and mine was laid bare before him.

He didn’t speak at once. He simply walked over to the armchair near my bed and sat down, resting his elbows on the armrests, leaning forward slightly. He was close enough that I could smell him: smoke-charred wood, leather, and something darker, metallic, like cold iron.

For a few endless seconds, he just watched me. His eyes were sharp, unwavering, studying every twitch, every tremor, every hesitant breath.

I broke the silence first.

“What… what do you want?” My voice was weak, trembling, but at least I’d managed to speak.

He didn’t answer right away. His brow arched slightly, his head tilted as though he were examining a specimen.

“Have you eaten?” The question came out blunt, direct, as if that were the only thing that mattered.

I swallowed hard and shook my head. I didn’t trust my voice.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. He didn’t look angry, not exactly, but there was something there… a restrained impatience. He exhaled almost imperceptibly, rose to his feet, and went to the table where a tray of food waited.

He picked up the plate without hurry, as if it were nothing, just another task. When he returned, he sat across from me again, fork already in hand.

“Open your mouth.” The order was calm, but carried an authority that left no room for argument.

My stomach twisted. The memory of the last time he tried to feed me burned in my mind: the defiance that had surged through me, the reckless courage that had made me spit the food back in his face. I could still see the fleeting shock in his eyes before it shifted into something darker.

I took a deep breath and instinctively turned my head away.

He didn’t move. Just raised his eyebrow—that silent gesture that said: Don’t make me repeat myself.

“I’m not hungry.” My voice was steadier than I expected.

“I didn’t ask.” His reply was calm, patient, unyielding. The fork lingered before me, relentless.

I closed my eyes for a second. I could resist. I could spit at him again, scream, fight… but the image of that man crumpling to the ground, lifeless, paralyzed me. I knew, with absolute certainty, what Dante was capable of.

Reluctantly, I opened my mouth.

He brought the fork closer, deliberately slow, his gaze never leaving mine. He placed the food against my lips, and I chewed, each motion heavy with tension. I swallowed hard, as though it were poison.

He studied me intently, and then prepared another bite.

“Better,” he murmured, almost to himself.

I tried to keep my face blank, but my eyes betrayed me. With every bite he gave me, one question gnawed at me: why was he doing this? He didn’t have to. He could order someone else to force me, or let me wither away… but no. He was the one insisting, feeding me himself.

“You’re afraid of me.” It wasn’t a question.

I froze. The fork halted midway between the plate and my lips. I didn’t answer.

He leaned in slightly, his voice low, steady.

“Are you?”

“After what I saw…” I swallowed hard. “How could I not be?”

His eyes stayed locked on mine, unflinching, unreadable. For a moment, I thought he might smile. But he didn’t. He only offered me another bite, and I accepted in silence.

That silence grew heavy, twisting into something else. It wasn’t just fear anymore. There was a different kind of tension, as though every gesture carried meaning. The way he watched me chew, the controlled patience in his movements, the fact that he was here, tending to something as trivial as feeding me…

After a few more bites, I felt suffocated.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered. “Why do you care if I eat or not?”

He paused. Looked at the fork, then at me.

“Because you’re mine.” The words were simple. Terrifyingly simple.

My breath faltered. I wanted to scream, to shout that I wasn’t his, that I wasn’t anything. But the words tangled in my throat.

He took advantage of my silence and slipped another bite between my lips. I accepted it without thinking.

When I was done, he picked up a napkin and, with a startling gentleness, wiped the corner of my mouth. His touch was careful, almost tender—a sharp contrast to the violence I knew those same hands could wield.

My entire body went rigid. It wasn’t pure fear coursing through me. It was something else, something I refused to name.

He leaned in, so close I could feel his breath ghost over my skin. His voice was low, steady, carrying a hidden promise.

“Good girl. You’ll learn that resisting me is pointless.”

My eyes widened. My heart hammered, my hands trembled beneath the blanket. But I didn’t answer. There was no answer I could give.

He rose, set the plate back on the tray, and walked to the door. Before leaving, he cast me one last look—intense, unreadable. Then the door shut behind him.

I was alone again, but no less suffocated. My body still trembled, my heart torn between terror and… something dangerously close to fascination.

And that terrified me more than any gunshot ever could.