Dante's POV
I awoke not to the familiar weight of the world, but to the unfamiliar, breathtaking weight of her. Isabella was sprawled across my chest, her head a perfect fit in the hollow of my shoulder, one arm slung over my waist. Her hair, a dark silk fan, tickled on my chin. The scent of her—sleep-warm, sweet, and uniquely her—filled my senses, eclipsing the usual first waking smell of expensive linen and solitude.
I didn't move. I barely breathed. I just… existed. In the gray-gold light of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains, I watched her.
Her eyelashes were dark smudges against cheeks still flushed from sleep—and from me. Her lips were slightly parted, swollen from the kisses. I watched the steady, gentle rise and fall of her breath, a rhythm more vital to me now than my own heartbeat. In the absolute quiet, I traced the lines of her with my eyes—the graceful arch of her brow, the elegant slope of her nose, and the strong, stubborn set of her jaw even in repose.
And the realization, which had been creeping in for weeks, settled over me now with the gentle, irrevocable force of a sunrise.
Love.
It wasn't obsession, though that fire still burned. It wasn't possession, though the need to claim her was a primal drumbeat in my blood. It was quieter. Deeper. It was a terrifying vulnerability, a crack in my armor so wide it left my entire being exposed. It was the sudden, absolute knowledge that if this woman ceased to exist, the sun would not rise for me again. Not in this life.
The thought should have filled me with dread. It was the ultimate weakness. Instead, looking at her peaceful face and feeling her trusting weight on me filled me with a sense of fierce, protective purpose so profound it made my throat tight.
She stirred. A soft, incoherent murmur escaped her lips, and she nuzzled unconsciously against my skin. My arms tightened around her, an instinctual response. Her eyes fluttered open.
For a moment, we were the clear, startled green of a forest after rain. Then awareness flooded in. The memory of the night flooded in. The intimacy. The shattering of every barrier between us. I saw a flicker of uncertainty, of morning-after awkwardness, cross her face.
I waited. I would let her set the tone. I would give her a chance after taking so much.
She lifted her head, her gaze meeting mine. She didn't smile. She just looked at me, her expression a complex map of wonder and wariness. "Hi," she whispered, her voice husky with sleep.
"Hi," I murmured back, my voice rough.
A beat of silence stretched, but it wasn't the cold, hostile silence of before. It was charged, fragile, and new.
"Last night…" she began, then stopped, searching for words.
I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. "Last night," I said, my voice low and sure, "you chose me. And I will spend the rest of my life ensuring you never regret it."
It wasn't a grand declaration of love. It was a vow of service. A promise from the king to his queen. Her eyes softened, the wariness melting into something warmer, something that looked like tentative trust.
"You promised to protect me," she said, not as a question, but as a reminder.
"Always," I vowed, holding her gaze. "With my last breath. With every weapon at my disposal. You now know about every dirty, bloody, and ugly part of me that exists. They are all yours."
She didn't flinch at the mention of the ugliness. Instead, she nodded, a slow, accepting gesture. Then, a faint, real smile touched her lips. "I'm starving."
The mundane statement, made during their monumental shift, was so perfectly characteristic of her that it made my chest ache. I chuckled, a real, unguarded sound. "Then we should eat."
I rose, pulling on a robe and tossing one to her. I called down for breakfast to be brought to the room—a first. We sat at the small table by the window overlooking the park, the morning sun painting the room in gold. The meal was simple: pastries, fruit, and strong coffee. We ate in a comfortable quiet, our legs tangling under the table. I watched her spread jam on a croissant with a focus usually reserved for her art, and the domesticity of it was more intimate than the sex had been. The moment was life. Shared. Simple.
When a knock came, it was Marco with the morning security briefing. I let him in, not bothering to hide the scene. Isabella, wrapped in the robe, her hair a glorious mess, sipping coffee by the sunlit window. I was, barefoot, leaning against the dresser.
Marco's sharp eyes took it all in—the rumpled bed, the intimate breakfast, and the new, unguarded ease between them. A flicker of surprise, then a slow, knowing satisfaction crossed his scarred face. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. About damn time.
"Security's been tripled on all perimeters," Marco reported, his voice neutral. "The… cleanup from yesterday is complete. No further chatter from Volkov's camp. It's quiet."
"Too quiet," I murmured, my mind shifting briefly back to the Don. "He's regrouping. Keep digging for his weak spot."
"Already on it." Marco's eyes flicked to Isabella, then back to me. "There's also the Moretti dinner tonight. A show of unity. It's expected you'll both attend."
I looked at Isabella. The formal event took place in the lion's den, just a short time after the attack. It was a test. I waited.
She met my gaze and set her coffee cup down with a soft click. "I'll need a dress," she said, her voice calm. Not a question. A statement.
Pride, fierce and bright, swelled in my chest. My queen was ready to face the court. "You'll have one."
Marco left, the ghost of a smile on his lips. When the door closed, Isabella stood and walked to the window, looking out at the park. The robe slipped off one shoulder. I came up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, resting my chin on her head. We stood like that, watching the world wake up.
"What happens now?" She asked softly, her voice barely a whisper.
I turned her in my arms, looking down into her beautiful, uncertain face. I saw the woman who had defied me, saved me, feared me, and chosen me.
I leaned down, capturing her mouth in a soft, possessive kiss. When I pulled back, my eyes held a promise that went beyond protection, beyond obsession.
"Now, tesoro," I murmured, my thumb tracing her lower lip, "I make you mine in every way that matters. Not with contracts or cages. But with this." I placed her hand over my heart, where it beat a frantic rhythm for her alone. "And with every sunrise we share. And with a life I will build for you that is worthy of the woman who looked at the devil and saw a man worth saving."
I didn't say, "I love you." The words were too small, too cheap for the cataclysm she had caused inside me.
But as I held her, as she leaned into my touch, her eyes shining with unshed tears and a dawning hope, I knew she heard it anyway.