The storm outside hadn't stopped.
Rain lashed the glass walls like a rhythm meant only for them.
The firelight flickered across the room, painting her in gold and shadow.
Sarah hadn't moved since Dante left her by the fireplace.
She told herself to go. To end this before she forgot what she wanted.
But when she turned, he was there again — quiet, deliberate, dangerous.
He didn't say a word.
Just studied her, the way a sculptor studies a block of marble — searching for what lies beneath.
"You didn't leave," he said softly.
"You didn't tell me to."
His lips curved. "So you do take orders."
She took a step forward. "Don't push me."
"I already am."
The words lingered between them, heavy as thunder.
Dante moved closer, slow enough to make her breath falter.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
When his hand finally brushed her arm, the contact was brief — but it felt like fire.
Every nerve came alive.
"This isn't what I came for," she whispered.
"No?" His voice was low, almost tender. "Then why are you trembling?"
She opened her mouth, but nothing came.
Because she was trembling.
Not from fear, but from something far more dangerous — anticipation.
"Dante…"
He cupped her face with one hand, his thumb brushing the corner of her lip.
"Say what you want."
Her chest rose and fell. "I want to forget."
"Then stop remembering."
He kissed her.
Not gently.
Not cruelly.
But like he'd waited for it — like he wanted to erase everything that came before.
Her hands found his chest, not to push him away but to steady herself.
His heart beat steady beneath her palms — controlled, relentless, real.
The world narrowed — no betrayal, no lies, just heat and heartbeat and the taste of power.
He pulled back just enough for her to breathe.
"This isn't revenge anymore," he murmured.
"Then what is it?"
"Balance."
He kissed the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat, every motion deliberate, testing her limits — not forcing, not demanding.
And in that moment, Sarah realized something that terrified her.
She wasn't powerless.
She was participating. Choosing.
Every touch she allowed was hers to give.
Her fingers tangled in his shirt, dragging him closer. "You think I'm broken?"
"I think you're pretending not to be," he said, his breath warm against her skin.
"And what if I am?"
"Then let me see the cracks."
She met his gaze — dark, steady, consuming.
"I don't need saving."
"I know," he whispered. "That's why you're dangerous."
His words sank deep, somewhere past the ache.
She'd expected guilt, maybe regret.
Instead, she felt power — raw, rising, electric.
Because for the first time since that night — since Dominic, since the betrayal — she wasn't the one being used.
She was the one in control.
Dante saw it too. His eyes softened, almost proud.
"You feel it, don't you?"
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Their lips met again — slower this time, less battle, more surrender.
It wasn't about pain now. It was about reclaiming something stolen.
The storm raged harder outside, but inside, there was only heat and breath and quiet confession.
When he finally pulled back, his voice was rough, unguarded.
"Now," he murmured, his forehead resting against hers, "tell me who broke you."
The question hit her like a blade wrapped in silk.
She froze. Every wall she'd built started to tremble.
Her lips parted, but the name stuck in her throat.
Outside, lightning cracked across the skyline.
Inside, silence swallowed them whole.
---
Sarah's eyes burned, not from tears — from the war inside her.
She wanted to tell him. To make him understand.
But she also wanted to stay strong, unreadable.
Dante waited, watching her, the fire reflecting in his eyes.
And though she said nothing, her silence told him everything.