The house was too quiet.
It had been days since Evans' visit, but the tension he left behind hadn't faded. It hung in the halls like smoke, thick and unseen, slipping under doors and behind glances.
Dante hadn't spoken much since.
He watched her instead.
At breakfast. At dusk. In the hallway when she thought she was alone. His gaze was steady, not angry, but watchful — like a predator memorizing the rhythm of its prey before the strike.
Avery had obeyed. She kept her head down, stayed quiet, learned his routines. But something in her had begun to flicker — not rebellion, exactly. Just… something that wanted to breathe again.
And that morning, she acted on it.
It was a small thing. Barely a move at all. Just her stepping outside to feel the sun on her skin. Just five minutes. Barefoot. Alone. Free.
But when she returned, the front door creaked louder than usual. Like the house was warning her.
Dante was waiting in the living room.
Seated in his usual armchair, the fire beside him burning low, untouched. A book rested on the table — not the heavy, cruel ones he usually read. Just a thin volume of poetry. But it was unopened.
He hadn't even read it. He'd just… waited.
"You needed air?" he asked without looking at her.
She froze. "I didn't think—"
"That's clear."
A long silence stretched between them. She took a step forward, unsure if she was supposed to apologize or explain.
"I just wanted to feel something," she said finally, softly.
Dante slowly turned his head. The way he looked at her made her skin prickle. "And what did you feel, little flame?"
She hesitated. "The sun."
He rose from his chair. "You disobeyed."
"It was just—"
"It doesn't matter what it was," he said sharply. "It matters that you didn't ask."
The room seemed to shrink. Her breath caught.
"I didn't think I needed permission to—"
"You don't need to think," he said, cutting across her. "You need to learn."
He circled her, each step quiet and precise, like a lion in the grass. "Obedience isn't about chains, Avery. It's about consent. Mine."
She turned to face him. "So I'm not allowed to be alone anymore?"
"You were never alone," he said. "Not in this house. Not with me."
Something in her snapped — a whisper of resistance, a breath of fire. "You can't watch everything. Not always."
He stopped. Slowly, a smile curved his lips — the kind that made her feel like she'd walked into a trap. "No," he said. "But I can make you wish I had."
Before she could process that, he pointed to the couch.
"Sit."
She obeyed.
He disappeared into the hall and returned with a tall glass — clear, filled with something amber and sharp-smelling.
He handed it to her.
"What is it?" she asked, staring at the liquid.
"A lesson," he said. "Drink."
She hesitated, then raised it to her lips. The burn hit instantly — whiskey, bitter and ancient. It curled down her throat like fire and coiled in her chest.
Her eyes watered. "Why—"
"Because control isn't taught. It's broken."
He took the glass from her, placed it down, and sat across from her. "You want air? You want freedom?" His tone was soft now, almost kind. "Then earn it."
"How?"
His eyes darkened. "By proving you know the cost of every choice you make."
They stared at each other.
No more raised voices. No more threats. Just quiet, scorching pressure — the kind that cracked people from the inside out.
He stood again and walked to the fireplace, where the flames had dimmed to embers. With a swift motion, he threw another log in. The fire roared to life.
"You disobeyed," he said again, but not cruelly. "So now I will not touch you. Not speak to you. Not for three days."
"What?"
"You want heat? You want my attention?" He turned, his expression unreadable. "Then learn what it feels like when it's gone."
Her chest tightened. "That's not fair—"
"Fair?" His voice didn't rise, but it cut. "You think this is about fairness? This is about survival. Mine. Yours. Ethan's."
She flinched.
The silence that followed was worse than his words. He walked past her, stopped at the door, and looked back one last time.
"You're not in a cage, Avery," he said quietly. "You're in a forge. Either you melt, or you sharpen."
Then he left.
The silence after Dante left was louder than any punishment.
Avery sat there, the fire crackling beside her, staring at the glass he'd placed down. A thin trace of amber still clung to its edges, glowing faintly in the flickering light.
He said she would feel his absence.
She already did.
Her fingers curled around the glass.
She wasn't a child.
And if he wanted to play mind games, maybe she could change the rules.
She tipped the glass back and drank. All of it. The burn seared through her chest, but this time, she didn't wince. She welcomed it. It was the only warmth he'd left behind.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. She didn't know.
But something shifted — the edges of her thoughts softened, her limbs felt lighter. Her heart beat louder than the ticking clock. She stood, barefoot, steady… but not fully herself.
Not wild.
Not weak.
Just… unguarded.
And her feet moved before her mind could stop them — past the library, past the hallway shadows — until she stood in front of his door.
The whiskey gave her courage.
The silence gave her reason.
And the ache he left inside her — that constant pull — gave her no choice.
She didn't knock. She just turned the handle and stepped in.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city through tall windows. Dante stood by the edge of his bed, shirtless, his back to her, shoulders taut like carved stone.
He didn't turn.
"Avery."
Just her name. No emotion. But she heard the warning underneath.
She stepped closer anyway. "You said not to speak. But you didn't say I couldn't come to you."
His head tilted slightly. Still, he didn't face her.
"You drank it," he said.
"Yes."
"All of it."
"Yes."
Silence again.
Then — "Why are you here?"
She swallowed, the heat in her veins rising. "Because I wanted to see what happens when the flame walks into the forge."
That made him turn.
His gaze met hers — slow, piercing, unreadable. His eyes flicked over her face, her bare feet, the softness in her expression. She wasn't stumbling. She wasn't giggling.
She was deliberate.
Dangerous.
And beautiful.
"You should leave," he said, voice low.
"But you don't want me to," she whispered.
He didn't answer.
Avery took another step, close enough to feel the heat from his skin. Her hand brushed lightly against his arm — just a touch. Not asking. Just being.
"I'm not drunk enough to forget this," she murmured. "And not sober enough to lie."
His jaw clenched. His eyes stayed on hers. "You think this is a game?"
"No," she said softly. "I think it's a storm. And I'm already inside it."
He reached up, caught her wrist — not roughly, but firm.
"Be careful," he said, voice like gravel. "You don't know what you're inviting."
Her breath hitched. "Maybe I do."
Their faces were close now. Too close. She could smell the heat of the fire still clinging to his skin, feel the tension radiating from him like an aura.
His grip on her wrist loosened.
Then he stepped back.
"You're testing me," he said. "That's what this is."
She shook her head. "No. I'm reminding you. I'm not the only one burning."
That struck something in him.
His expression shifted — just for a second. His mask cracked, revealing a hunger he kept buried too deep. But it was there.
Alive. Raw.
And dangerous.
He turned away sharply, putting space between them again.
"Go back to your room," he said, barely above a whisper. "Now."
She didn't argue. She didn't beg.
She just stood there, watching the war behind his eyes. And then, slowly, she turned.
As she reached the door, he spoke again.
"Avery."
She paused.
"When I finally do touch you…" His voice was a shadow now. "You'll beg me to stop — and you'll mean the opposite."
The door clicked shut behind her.
But her heart was still in that room.
Burning.