Dante pov
The fire burns low, shadows licking the corners of the study. Her scent lingers, faint but maddening, a trace of warm skin and the shampoo she used. I take another slow sip of whiskey and let the glass rest against my lips. She doesn't realize how dangerous it is to tempt me like that. Or maybe she does.
I've handled enemies who would slit my throat without blinking, and none of them have rattled me the way she does just by standing in a doorway. She thinks she's walking on the edge of my patience. She doesn't know she's already in my hands.
I should not let her think I killed her father. Fear keeps her compliant but the truth is a knife I'm not ready to put in her hands. I picture the locked room down the hall. She's curious about it—too curious. I'll have to deal with that soon. The wrong door opens and the whole façade falls apart.
The clock on the wall ticks past midnight. I should go to bed, but my feet take me toward her wing of the house. I tell myself I'm just checking the security, making sure the guards outside her door are alert. It's a lie.
The hallway is dim, lit by a single sconce. Her door is closed, but I hear the faint rustle of movement inside. My hand hovers over the handle. I could walk in. I could see the way she looks when she's not trying to fight me. I pull my hand back. Not tonight. Obsession is a slow game and I always win slow games.
I'm halfway down the hall when I hear the faint click of her window latch. Not a sound most people would notice, but I've lived my life on noises like that — the kind that mean trouble. I turn the knob without knocking. She freezes mid-motion, one leg already swung over the sill. The night air curls around her hair, carrying the scent of rain.
"Going somewhere?" My voice is calm, even, but it's the calm that comes before blood is spilled.
Her chin lifts. "Fresh air."
Lie. The kind a girl tells when she doesn't think you'll call her on it. I cross the room slowly, every step deliberate, and take hold of the window. I slam it shut hard enough for the glass to tremble. She flinches, and I hate that she flinches.
"You think the streets out there are safer than me?" I murmur, leaning close enough for her breath to catch.
Her eyes flash. "I think you're the one I need saving from."
That should sting. It doesn't. It just confirms what I already know — she's smart enough to see danger, but not smart enough to know where it's really coming from. I take her wrist — not gently— pull her to the center of the room.
"You want to walk out of here? Fine. But if you do, I can't stop the men who'd love to put a bullet in your head just to hurt me and if they don't kill you…" My gaze drops, intentionally slow, tracing the shape of her body. "…they'll find other ways to make you regret it."
Her pulse kicks against my fingers. She should hate me for the threat. I see the confusion in her eyes — hate tangled up with something softer, something she'll never admit. I let her go, step back, and turn for the door. "Sleep, Liana. While you still can."
When I close it behind me, I lean against the wall for a long moment, cursing under my breath because the truth is, if she had taken one more step out that window… I'd have burned the whole city down to get her back.
Liana doesn't sleep. I know because I don't either. I pace my office, the glow of the desk lamp throwing long shadows across the shelves. Every instinct tells me to leave her alone — give her space, let the anger simmer down, but I'm not built for distance.
When I check the security feed an hour later, she's still awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed. Not crying. Not screaming. Just… staring at the closed window like it's a coffin lid. I go back upstairs.
She hears the lock turn before I'm inside, and her head snaps up.
"Can't sleep?" I ask. My tone is deliberately light, like we're strangers in a hotel and I'm making small talk in the hallway.
"I'm fine." The words are clipped. A lie again.
I walk over, slow enough that she has the choice to move away. She doesn't. "Don't lie to me, dolcezza," I murmur, brushing my knuckles along her jaw. She shivers, and it's not from fear.
Her eyes blaze. "You drag me here, you threaten me, you talk to me like I'm property—"
"You are mine," I cut in, voice low but sharp. "Not because I took you. Because I'll keep you alive when no one else can."
Her breath hitches — frustration, anger, something darker underneath. She shoves at my chest, but my hands close around her wrists before she can push me back.
"You hate me now," I say, leaning in until my mouth is a breath from hers. "One day you'll understand why you should have not."
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her pulse is a hammer in my grip. I could kiss her — she knows it, I know it too, but instead I release her like she's scalding my skin. I leave without another word, shutting the door behind me. The second it clicks shut, I hear the soft thump of her collapsing back onto the bed. She'll tell herself it's a relief, but I know better.