The smell of boiling lavender and old wood was the first thing that drifted into Dante's consciousness. It was a soft smell—nothing like the scent of gunpowder, expensive leather, and rot that usually defined his world.
Dante tried to sit up, but his body screamed in protest. A jagged lightning bolt of pain shot from his side, pinning him back down onto the narrow cot. He let out a low, guttural snarl, his hand reflexively reaching for the Beretta he usually kept at his hip.
His holster was gone. He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose, thin cotton drawstring pants that definitely didn't belong to him.
"I wouldn't move if I were you," a calm, melodic voice drifted from the corner of the room. "I spent three hours on those stitches. If you rip them, I'm out of silk thread, and I'll have to use fishing line. It's much itchier."
Dante's head snapped toward the sound. Elian was sitting by a small wooden table, meticulously cleaning the lenses of his brass telescope. The morning sun hit the boy's profile, making his hair look like spun gold.
The Power Shift
Dante narrowed his eyes, his voice a dry rasp. "Where am I, boy?"
"My home. Oakhaven," Elian replied, finally looking over. He didn't look afraid. It was infuriating. People usually trembled when Dante Thorne looked at them with that particular shade of murderous intent. "And my name is Elian. Not 'boy.'"
Dante let out a dry, hacking laugh that turned into a wince. "You have no idea who I am, do you? You should have let the tide take me."
Elian stood up and walked over, carrying a wooden bowl of broth. He sat on the edge of the bed, invading Dante's personal space with a terrifying lack of hesitation. "I know you're heavy, you're covered in tattoos of things that bite, and someone wants you dead. Beyond that, I don't care. Now, drink this."
The First Spark
Dante didn't take the bowl. Instead, he reached out with his good arm, his large, scarred hand wrapping around Elian's throat. He didn't squeeze—not yet—but the threat was there. A king asserting his dominance even from a sickbed.
"You don't command me," Dante hissed, pulling Elian inches from his face. "I give the orders. Always."
Elian's heart was hammering against his ribs—Dante could feel the pulse under his palm—but the boy didn't pull away. Instead, Elian leaned into the grip, his silver eyes defiant.
"You're in my house," Elian whispered, his breath warm against Dante's lips. "You're bleeding on my sheets. And right now, you can't even sit up without my help. So, in this room, I am the one who decides if you live or die. Does that bother you, King?"
Dante's fingers twitched. He felt a sudden, sharp jolt of heat that had nothing to do with his wound. He looked at Elian's mouth—soft, pink, and mocking—and felt a surge of possessiveness so sudden it made his head spin. He liked the fire in this little fisherman. He wanted to see if he could put it out, or if it would burn him alive.
Slowly, Dante released his grip, his thumb trailing over Elian's jawline in a slow, territorial stroke.
"Drink the soup, Dante," Elian said, his voice softening just a fraction.
Dante took the bowl, his eyes never leaving Elian's. "You're a strange creature, Elian. Most people run from monsters. You invite them to breakfast."
"The stars taught me that even the darkest voids have a center," Elian replied, standing up to return to his telescope. "I just haven't decided what's at yours yet."
The King's Observation
As Elian turned his back to work, Dante watched the way the boy's shirt stretched over his lean shoulders. He looked fragile, like something Dante could break with one hand, yet he had the spine of a titan.
Dante realized with a dark, sinking certainty that he wasn't going back to the city alone. He would take this boy. He would put him in a palace of glass and see if he could make those silver eyes look at him with something more than just pity.