The ride back from the Metropole Gala was drowned in an oppressive, electric silence.
In the back seat of the armored Maybach, Dante hadn't said a single word. His heavy tuxedo jacket was still draped over my shoulders, shielding my wine-stained emerald dress from the world, but his broad frame radiated a fierce, volatile heat that filled the entire cabin. His hand held mine, not loosely, but with a bone-crushing, possessive grip that didn't loosen once during the twenty-minute drive through the rain.
The moment the car pulled into the underground garage of the West Wing, Dante opened his own door before the driver could even step out.
He didn't wait. He grabbed my hand, pulling me smoothly out of the vehicle and leading me straight toward his private elevator. Viktor stayed behind near
