The air in the penthouse shattered.
Before Sloane could even register Elara's scream, Dante moved. He didn't fire at the masked men first; he fired at the chandelier. The massive crystal fixture came crashing down in a spray of glass and darkness, plunging the room into a strobe-like chaos.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The silenced rounds from the Circle's assassins hissed through the air, punching holes into the expensive leather sofa where Dante had been standing a second before. Dante swung around the kitchen island, his weapon barking a rhythmic, deadly tune. One of the masked men folded, his white robe blooming with a sudden, visceral red as he hit the marble floor.
"Elara! Run to the service lift! Now!" Dante roared over the ringing in her ears.
Elara didn't think. She scrambled out from behind the bookshelf, her heels clicking frantically on the floor. She saw Sloane ducking behind a pillar, his face twisted in a snarl as he aimed his weapon at her.
"You're mine, little architect!" he yelled, his voice thick with a sickening lust that made her skin crawl.
A bullet grazed the wall inches from Elara's head. She dove toward the service hallway, her heart hammering so hard against her ribs it felt like it would crack her bone. Just as she reached the corner, a heavy hand grabbed her shoulder. She shrieked, striking out blindly, until she smelled the familiar scent of sandalwood and gunpowder.
Dante pulled her against his chest, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. He was bleeding from a shallow cut on his temple, the blood tracking down his jawline like a warrior's paint.
"I have you," he hissed, shoving her into the small, cramped service elevator.
The space was tiny—barely enough for the two of them. As the doors slid shut, the sound of the gunfight was muffled, replaced by the mechanical groan of the cables. The adrenaline was a physical weight in the air. Dante pinned her against the back wall of the lift, his body a shield of solid muscle.
In the dim, flickering light of the elevator, the terror began to blur into a raw, frantic energy. Elara's chest was heaving, her breasts jiggling with every sob-like breath she took. The lace of her bra had shifted during the scramble, and she could feel the cool air of the lift hitting the sensitive skin of her peaks, which were hard and throbbing from the sheer rush of the near-death experience.
Dante looked down at her, his eyes wild and dark. He saw her vulnerability, the way her skirt was hiked up around her thighs, and the way she was looking at him—like he was the only God she believed in.
"He touched you," Dante growled, his hand slamming into the wall beside her head. "Sloane's hands were on you."
"He just... he just grabbed me, Dante. Please—"
He didn't let her finish. He crushed his mouth against hers, a kiss that wasn't about romance; it was about reclamation. It was a desperate, territorial branding. His tongue was a hot invasion, and Elara met it with her own, her hands clutching at the damp fabric of his shirt. She needed to feel alive. She needed to feel the heat of him to drown out the cold image of the masked men.
Dante's hand slid down, his fingers finding the hem of her skirt and ripping the delicate silk upward. He didn't waste time. He found the soaked center of her panties, his fingers diving into her heat with a primal groan.
"You're so wet for me," he whispered harshly against her lips. "Even now, while we're running for our lives, your body is begging for me."
Elara let out a broken moan, her head falling back against the metal wall. The rhythmic throb of the elevator combined with the insistent pressure of his fingers was too much. Her private parts felt engorged, pulsing with a need that overshadowed the fear of the men upstairs. She arched her back, her breasts pressing into his hard chest, the friction sending waves of electricity through her.
"Dante... we have to go..." she whimpered, even as she shifted her hips to give him better access.
"We are going," he muttered, his thumb finding the sensitive bud of her clitoris and flicking it with a deliberate, punishing rhythm. "But I need to know you're mine before we hit the street. I need to feel you shaking for me."
He unzipped his trousers, his rigid length springing free, pulsing and dark in the shadows. He didn't enter her—not yet. He rubbed the head of his arousal against her wetness, teasing her until she was crying out his name. The elevator reached the basement with a soft ding, but Dante didn't stop. He thrust into her, a single, deep movement that filled her completely, stretching her and making her eyes roll back in ecstasy.
The sensation was overwhelming—the cold steel of the elevator against her back and the searing heat of the man she loved-hated between her legs. She felt the jiggle of her breasts with every thrust, the way her whole body seemed to vibrate with his power.
Just as she felt the first ripples of a climax beginning to take hold, the doors opened.
The garage was empty, but the silence was more terrifying than the noise. Dante pulled out of her with a curse, adjusting his clothes and pulling her skirt down in one fluid motion. He was back to being the predator in a heartbeat.
"Keep your head down," he ordered, dragging her toward a non-descript, muddy SUV parked in the shadows—a vehicle that didn't scream 'billionaire.'
They sped out of the garage, tires screaming as they hit the pavement. Dante didn't head for the main highway. He took the back alleys, weaving through the industrial district where the "disgusting" side of the city lived—where the Circle's low-level firms operated out of "holy" missions and charity storefronts.
"We can't go to any of my properties," Dante said, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. "Sloane knows all of them. He's been a rat for longer than I realized."
"Then where?" Elara asked, clutching her torn blouse together.
"The Edge," he replied. "A motel on the border of the waste district. It's dirty, it's loud, and the people there don't ask questions because they're all hiding from something too."
As they pulled into the gravel lot of a flickering neon motel, Elara looked at the sign: The Seraph's Rest.
The irony wasn't lost on her.
They checked into a room that smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap bleach. The walls were thin, and she could hear the muffled sounds of a domestic argument next door. Dante locked the door and shoved a heavy dresser in front of it.
He turned to Elara, the neon blue light of the sign outside strobing across his face.
"This is the first stage of the war, Elara. Sloane was just the appetizer. The Circle... they don't just kill. They exploit. That motel across the street? It's a front for their 'cleansing' rituals. They take girls like you and they break them until there's nothing left but a shell."
He stepped closer, his shadow looming large on the stained wallpaper. "I'm going to kill Sloane. I'm going to burn their missions to the ground. But first..."
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly—the only sign of the toll the night had taken. He touched the torn silk of her shoulder.
"First, I need to make sure you're still whole."