I woke up thirsty.
The kind of thirst that sat heavy at the back of my throat, dry and uncomfortable, dragging me out of sleep even though my body begged to stay still. The house was silent—too silent. No music. No distant footsteps. No Dante.
He hadn't been around all day.
Ever since the guard dragged me back inside and locked the doors behind me, I'd been waiting. Waiting for his smile. His questions. His usual calm presence that somehow always felt like a cage dressed up as comfort.
Nothing came.
By the time I slipped out of bed, the digital clock on the wall glowed 12:07 a.m.
I padded down the hallway toward the kitchen, the marble floor cold beneath my feet.
That was when I saw him.
Dante sat at the kitchen table, a single glass of whiskey in front of him. His suit jacket was discarded over the back of the chair, his tie loosened around his collar. He looked up as I entered, his expression cold and unreadable.
"Did you have a nice day out?" His voice was dangerously calm, each word clipped and precise. "See anything interesting? Anyone interesting?"
He stood slowly, his movements deliberate as he circled the table toward me. The whiskey bottle sat half-empty beside him, evidence of how long he'd been waiting.
"You were supposed to stay in the car," he continued, his tone deceptively casual. "But you didn't listen, did you? You thought you could disobey me and get away with it."
He stopped just inches from me, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
His gaze dropped briefly to my face, my lips, then lifted again, darkening.
"I'm...I'm sorry. I m...made a mistake."
He smiled.
"You didn't think," Dante said quietly. "You didn't plan. You didn't calculate consequences." He tilted his head. "That's disappointing."
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
He stepped closer. Too close, no space between us.
I backed up instinctively until my spine hit the counter.
Dante placed one hand on either side of me, caging me in, his body blocking every escape route. He didn't touch me—not really—but the space he took felt invasive, suffocating.
"You know what scares me most?" he asked calmly. "Not that Kieran saw you."
Kieran.
My hands curled into fists against the counter.
How did he know that name?
I hadn't said it. I didn't even know who the name belonged to. until today—until the mall, until the way that stranger's eyes had looked at me like I was something he'd lost and never stopped searching for.
"But you let him," Dante continued.
"That you stood there," Dante continued, voice even, almost curious, "and let another man look at what belongs to me."
Something sharp flashed in his eyes.
"I don't share."
He leaned in, his lips close to my ear now.
"And I don't forgive easily."
His hand lifted slowly, brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear with mock tenderness. My skin crawled at the contrast—how gentle the touch was, how violent the intent behind it felt.
"Do you know how many people I killed for less?" he murmured.
I went still.
"Do you know how many begged?" he went on, voice dropping lower. "How many swore it was an accident? A misunderstanding?"
He pulled back just enough to look at my face.
"They all said the same thing you're thinking right now."
His thumb pressed lightly under my chin, forcing my gaze up.
Please don't.
He smiled again.
"There's no such thing as a mistake with me, Aurielle," Dante said softly. "Only choices."
His thumb released my chin.
I hesitated. "H...how How do you know his name?" I asked, my voice barely steady. "Tell me."
Silence.
"Who is Kieran to me?" I pressed. "Who am I really?"
The questions spilled out before I could stop them, fear sharpening every word.
"And you," I whispered. "Who are you really, Dante?"
"Isn't it fascinating," he said, "how curiosity always arrives after disobedience?"
He stepped away from me, and walked into the doorway, leaning against the frame like this conversation amused him. Like my confusion was entertainment.
"You ask very big questions for someone who can't even remember her own past," he continued lightly.
"You're hiding something."
"Of course I am." His smile was lazy. "Everyone worth fearing does."
I took a step closer despite myself. "Are we connected?" I asked. "All of us. Me, you, him."
For a moment—just a moment—something flickered in Dante's eyes.
Then it vanished.
"Careful," he said softly. "That road doesn't lead to answers. It leads to pain."
"That's not an answer," I said, my voice shaking now.
Dante straightened, the air shifting instantly. The playfulness evaporated.
"No," he agreed. "It's a warning."
He reached out, lifting my chin again, forcing my gaze to meet his.
"You are mine," he said quietly. "That is the only truth you need right now."
"And Kieran?"
His jaw tightened—just barely.
"Is a problem," Dante said flatly. "One I intend to erase."
Fear flooded me, cold and suffocating.
"You don't remember him yet," Dante continued, releasing me. "But your body does. Your instincts do."
He turned away.
"And that," he added over his shoulder, "is why I won't let him have you."
"For disobeying me," Dante said quietly, "I think your punishment should start now."
He took a step toward me.
"I'll cuff you to my bed and fuck you until you forget who you are. Until the only thing you remember is my name."
The words were calm. Casual. Like he was discussing a schedule adjustment.
"I'll make you scream it over and over again while I mark every inch of your body. You'll wear my bruises like jewelry, a reminder of who owns you."
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I stepped back, pulse roaring in my ears.
"Stay away from me," I said, my voice thin but firm.
"You test boundaries. Then you act surprised when I remind you where they are."
Another step.
I moved again, heart slamming against my ribs. "Don't," I warned.
He didn't stop.
I turned and ran.
My hand found the knife on the kitchen counter—metal cold, solid, real. I spun back around, blade raised between us, my grip trembling.
Dante froze.
Then he laughed. Again. He always laughed, and it was terrifying.
It was slow and unrestrained, his mouth opening wide, teeth bared as the sound echoed through the kitchen—low, broken, wrong. The kind of laugh that made your skin crawl because it meant something had snapped into place behind his eyes.
"Oh," he said softly, laughter fading into a breath. "This is new."
"Stay back," I said, pointing the knife at him. "I mean it."
I retreated until my back hit the wall.
Nowhere left to go.
He studied me like a puzzle he already knew how to solve, his gaze dragging over the blade, my shaking hands, my face.
I didn't lower the knife. I couldn't. My arm shook as he closed the distance until the blade pressed against his body, the point dimpling fabric, testing skin beneath.
He didn't flinch.
"Go on," he murmured. "If you're going to threaten me, at least commit."
My breath hitched. I could feel the heat of him now—solid, unyielding—his presence crowding every thought. Anger rolled off him in waves, thick and suffocating, mixed with something darker. Something possessive.
It made my stomach twist.
Made my body betray me in ways I didn't understand.
Dante noticed.
Of course he did.
His hand lifted, fingers brushing my wrist, steadying it—not pushing the knife away. Just holding me there, suspended between choice and consequence.
"Your instincts are loud tonight," he said softly. "Conflicted. Messy."
His other hand rose, cupping my face with unsettling gentleness. The contrast made my skin prickle.
"You don't want to hurt me," he whispered. "But you want to escape."
I swallowed.
Then I moved.
The blade drove forward before I could think—before fear could stop me.
Dante gasped.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a sharp, broken sound as he staggered back, his hand flying to his chest. Blood bloomed beneath his fingers, dark and real—but not deep enough.
Not enough.
The knife slipped from my numb fingers, clattering against the tile as my grip finally failed me.
He groaned, dropping to one knee.
I didn't wait.
My feet barely touched the floor as I bolted out of the kitchen, heart slamming, lungs burning. I didn't look back.
Behind me, I heard him move.
Laughing softly—like this was already decided.
"Aurielle," Dante called, his voice carrying easily through the house. Calm again. Certain.
"You can run," he continued, almost indulgent. "Hide. Pretend you have somewhere to go."
My blood turned cold.
"Now I understand," he said, a smile unmistakable in his tone.
"I see why Kieran couldn't stop looking for you."
I stumbled, panic clawing up my throat.
"Feisty," Dante added. "Desperate. Beautiful when you think you're free."
Then, quieter. Sharper.
"Just remember—this house doesn't let anyone leave unless I want them to."
I ran faster.
Because tonight, I knew one thing with terrible clarity.
I wasn't escaping.
I was being hunted.