The "wedding preparations" were a farce, a set of invisible chains forged in silk and diamonds. Elena retreated to the only place she could find a semblance of privacy: the en-suite bathroom of her new, larger quarters.
The room was a cathedral of steam and white marble. Elena stepped into the walk-in shower, letting the near-scalding water beat against her back, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of Dante's touch and the sight of her brother's blood. The heat made her lightheaded, the lingering effects of her concussion clashing with the burgeoning exhaustion of her pregnancy.
As she reached for the soap, a sudden wave of dizziness hit her. The world tilted. Her foot slid on the slick, soapy tile.
"Ah!"
A sharp, jagged pain shot through her right ankle as it twisted beneath her. She crashed against the marble wall before hitting the floor, the heavy spray of the shower drowning out her initial gasp.
"Help!" she cried out, the pain in her ankle blooming into a white-hot throb. "Someone!"
She tried to pull herself up, but the floor was a death trap of water and oil. She felt small, exposed, and utterly helpless.
The door didn't just open; it was nearly taken off its hinges. Dante burst into the room, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his face a mask of raw panic. He didn't hesitate, stepping straight into the spray, his expensive leather shoes and trousers instantly soaked.
"Elena!"
He reached down, his large hands sliding under her arms to hoist her up. He shut off the water with a violent jerk of the handle, leaving the room in a heavy, dripping silence broken only by Elena's ragged
"I slipped," she choked out, her voice trembling. "My ankle... I think I broke it."
Dante didn't answer. His jaw was set so tight it looked like stone. He grabbed a plush, oversized towel and wrapped it around her with a gentleness that felt more dangerous than his anger. He carried her out to the bedroom, laying her on the edge of the bed.
He knelt between her legs, his wet shirt clinging to the muscles of his chest. He took her foot in his hand, his thumb stroking the swelling skin of her ankle with a surgeon's precision.
"It's not broken," he murmured, his voice low and vibrating. "A sprain. A bad one."
He looked up. In the dim, amber light of the bedroom, the slow burn that had been simmering for weeks suddenly flared. He was drenched, his hair matted to his forehead, and his eyes—usually so cold—were burning with an intensity that made Elena's heart skip a beat.
"You should be more careful," he whispered. His hand didn't move from her ankle; instead, it began to slide slowly up her calf. "You have no idea what it does to me... hearing you scream like that."
Elena should have pushed him away. She should have remembered Rosa, her brother, and the golden cage. But the trauma of the night, the vulnerability of her nakedness beneath the towel, and the sheer, magnetic pull of the man kneeling before her shattered her resolve.
"I hate you, Dante," she breathed, but her hand found its way to his wet hair, her fingers curling into the dark locks.
"I know," he groaned, his forehead leaning against her knee. "I hate myself for needing you this much."
He moved upward, his body hovering over hers. The scent of rain, sandalwood, and raw desire filled the space between them. When his lips finally crashed against hers, it wasn't the cold claim of a Don. It was the desperate, starving kiss of a man who had been wandering in a desert.
Elena met his fire with her own, a volatile mix of hatred and a passion she couldn't suppress. Every touch was an argument; every breath was a confession. As his hands roamed over the curves that were just beginning to change with his child, the world outside the room—the wars, the weddings, the debts—ceased to exist.
There was only the heat, the heartbeat, and the terrifying realization that she was no longer just his prisoner. She was becoming his addiction