Dante's POV
She said we'd keep things professional.
I agreed.
But gods, every time she walks into a room, she undoes me.
The soft swish of her heels on my office marble floor is a siren's call. I don't even have to look to know it's her. I feel her—like an ache under my skin. The bond pulses, raw and alive.
She doesn't know what she does to me,whenever she is near.
"Why'd you invite me here," she asked eventually, without looking my way.
"You're not safe."
"That's what you keep saying." Her tone was sharp, but the way her fingers curled around the glass betrayed her nerves.
I moved closer. Close enough to catch the scent of her perfume—lavender and something sweeter underneath. It muddled my senses.
She finally looked at me. Eyes narrowed. Chin up.
"Are you going to hover like this for the next six months?"
I should've said yes.
I should've pulled back.
Instead, I said, "Not if you tell me to stop."
The bond between us pulsed. Restless. Hungry.
The pendant I had given her—glowed faintly at her throat. It called to him. Marked her as his. And she had no idea how dangerous that was.
Her eyes softened for the briefest second. "You're doing it again," she whispered. "Looking at me like…"
"Like you're mine?" The words escaped before I could stop them.
She froze. Her lips parted.
I stepped closer—close enough that the tension cracked between them. Her breath hitched as he brushed his fingers across her jaw. He could feel the warmth of her skin. The thrum of her pulse.
My wolf growled beneath the surface.
Touch her. Claim her.
The only thing clear is the way her pulse races when I speak low. The way her eyes drop to my mouth when I say her name.
"Ava," I say, voice deepening, warning. Wanting.
Are you sure you want this to stay professional," I murmur. "Then explain why you're trembling."
"I'm not," she breathes, but her voice is soft. Weak.
"Liar."
She stands, pushing the chair back sharply—but doesn't move away.The world narrows to the space between us.
"I don't want this," she whispers, but she doesn't step back.
"I do," I answer, voice rough.
Silence.
Then, just for a second, I lean down. My lips ghost over hers—almost. Her breath catches. Her hand clutches my sleeve.
But I don't kiss her.
I can't.
Because if I do, I won't stop.
I pull away—slowly, painfully. "This is what hunger feels like," I tell her. "And I've been starving for year. I'll keep on waiting."
She blinked, confused.
"For what?"
"For the moment when you stop running and accept this."
Then I walk out—because right now, it's the only way not to fall to my knees for her.