The first thing I felt was the weight of eyes on me. I opened my eyes slowly, the morning light spilling in through the half-drawn curtains and painting the room in gold and shadow. He was sitting in the armchair by the window.
He wasn't wearing a suit this time; instead, he had on black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top buttons undone. His bare forearms were muscular, marked with faint scars. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his hand resting casually on the armrest, as if watching me sleep was the most natural thing in the world.
I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest. "What the hell are you doing in my room?"
He didn't move. "Making sure you're still here."
My pulse kicked. "Do you think I'm going to run?"
His lips curved, but it wasn't amusement, it was knowing. "I don't think. I know."
"What if I did?"
"Then I'd find you," he said, voice low. "And I'd bring you back."
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, refusing to let him see the way my stomach tightened at his certainty. "You can't keep me here forever."
"Forever's a long time," he murmured, standing. "I can try."
He closed the distance between us with slow, measured steps, like a predator circling its prey. My breath caught as he reached out, not to touch my face this time, but to take the sheet from my hands. I held it tighter.
His eyes met mine, steady and unblinking. "I told you last night," he said softly. "Some doors aren't meant to be closed."
We stayed like that for a long moment, my knuckles white on the linen, his hand wrapped around the edge. I expected him to pull., to rip it from my grasp, but Instead, he let go.
"Get dressed. Breakfast is waiting."
He turned and walked toward the door. Just before he stepped out, he glanced over his shoulder.
"And, Liana…" His gaze dragged over me one last time. "Wear something I'll like."
I dressed quickly, eager to escape the memory of him in my room. I pulled on a simple slip dress in deep emerald, with thin straps and a low back. I didn't choose it for him, no matter what he might think; it was just the first thing I grabbed from the wardrobe. However, the way it clung to my body would likely make him believe otherwise.
The dining room was brighter in the morning, sunlight streaming through the tall arched windows. The scent of fresh bread and strong coffee filled the air. Dante was already seated at the head of the table, holding a newspaper in one hand and a cup in the other. He looked up as I entered, slowly scanning me from head to toe.
"I approve."
"I don't care," I said, taking the seat farthest from him.
He set the paper down. "You will."
Breakfast was already laid out: fresh fruit, croissants, and eggs. I reached for the coffee, but he slid it toward me first, the porcelain cup stopping right in front of my hand.
"You remembered how I take it," I said, before I could stop myself.
"I remember everything about you." His tone was calm, almost conversational, but the weight of the words made my stomach tighten.
I focused on tearing a piece of bread, avoiding his gaze. I felt the steady pressure of his stare, as if it stripped away every layer I had placed between us.
"You wandered yesterday," he said.
"You keep a lot of doors locked."
His lips twitched. "Some locks aren't to keep people out. They're to keep people in."
I looked up at him then, searching his face for the hint of a joke. There wasn't one.
"What's behind that one door in the east wing?"
His eyes held mine. "A truth you're not ready for."
I hated the way my pulse jumped at that. "Or one you don't want me to see."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You'll see it when I decide."
The words were simple, but his tone was layered, part warning, part promise.
I tried to eat, but the coffee was all I could stomach. Dante watched, seemingly content just to let the silence stretch between us, until it was as taut as a wire.
Finally, he said, "This afternoon, you'll come with me."
"Where?"
He smiled faintly. "To watch how I keep what's mine."
Something in his eyes told me this wasn't about property and the way my breath caught told me I already knew what he meant.
By the time the car came to a stop, I had counted at least six armed men between the estate and our current location. Dante hadn't said a word during the drive; he simply sat beside me in the back seat, one arm stretched lazily across the leather, close enough that his warmth seeped into my skin. Every so often, I could feel his gaze—slow and deliberate—as if he was memorizing the way I breathed.
We stopped in front of a building that seemed unremarkable from the outside—grey concrete, narrow windows, the type of place you could easily walk past without a second glance. However, the moment we stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. The lighting was dim, and the air carried the scent of smoke and expensive liquor. Men in tailored suits moved through the space with quiet precision, each one glancing at Dante before stepping aside.
I quickly realized this was no ordinary office; it was a command center. Dante led me through a back hallway to a large glass-walled room. Inside, three men sat around a table, tension crackling between them. One man was bleeding from his lip and had a rumpled suit. The other two appeared untouched, but their eyes darted toward Dante with thinly veiled anxiety.
"Sit," Dante said to me, motioning toward a chair in the corner.
I didn't move. "Why am I here?"
"Because I want you here."
I hesitated for a moment before sitting down. It wasn't out of obedience; I was simply curious about what he would do next. Dante took the seat at the head of the table, and his presence alone made the room feel smaller.
"You've been taking from me," he said to the man with the split lip.
The man swallowed hard. "It was a mistake—"
"No," Dante cut in. "Mistakes are accidental. This was theft."
His tone never rose, but the weight behind it made the man flinch. Dante didn't need to yell; power lived in the way he breathed, the way he didn't have to move to make a man sweat.
He glanced over at one of his men. "Bring it."
A small velvet pouch was placed in front of him. Dante untied it slowly, deliberately, revealing a gold ring glinting in the low light.
"You took this from my shipment," Dante said. "From my family."
The man's hands shook. "Please—"
Dante stood, moving with that same unhurried control that made my chest tighten. He didn't touch the man, he just leaned down, close enough to speak against his ear.
"You don't take from me," he said softly. "Not things. Not money. Not women."
His eyes met mine for just a heartbeat, and in that moment, I understood he had brought me here to hear that final word, to truly feel it. The man with the split lip was led away by two guards, his fate sealed without Dante needing to dirty his hands. Once we were alone again, he approached me.
"Why did you want me to see that?" I asked.
He studied me for a long moment. "I wanted you to understand something."
"What?"
"That you're sitting in the safest place in the world," he said, stepping closer until his shadow fell over me, "and the most dangerous."
My heart thudded hard against my ribs. "Which are you?"
His mouth curved into that slow, predatory smile.
"Both."
The ride back was quieter than the one there. Dante didn't touch me, didn't speak—but I could feel him. Every breath, every shift of muscle, every flicker of his gaze in my direction. My mind replayed the scene at the table: the man's fear, Dante's control, the way he'd said not women while looking at me.
By the time we arrived at the estate, my skin felt too tight. I stepped out first, needing the distance, but his hand caught my wrist before I could move away. Not tightly, just enough to stop me.
"You're quiet," he said.
"I'm thinking."
"About running?"
"About you." The words slipped out before I could catch them.
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes catching the light like glass. "And what have you decided?"
"That I don't know if you're trying to protect me… or claim me."
He stepped closer, erasing what little space I had left. "What if I'm doing both?"
The front door was just a few feet away, but I couldn't move toward it. Not with him looking at me like that, ike the air between us was already his, like I was already his.
"You scare me," I admitted.
His hand slid down my wrist, his fingers brushing the inside of my palm, tracing a slow, deliberate line. "Good. Fear keeps you close."
My breath caught as his other hand came up, not to grab me, not to hold me, but to push a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingertips lingered against my skin, warm and firm.
"But it's not fear that keeps you looking at me like that," he murmured.
My pulse was a drum in my ears. "How am I looking at you?"
"Like you want me to touch you."
The world narrowed to the space between us, heat, breath, the faint scent of smoke clinging to him. His thumb brushed my jaw, slow and deliberate and then… he let go.
"Go inside, Liana," he said softly, stepping back. "Before I stop playing nice."
I walked past him, my knees unsteady, my heart pounding. I didn't look back but I could feel his eyes on me the whole way.