"Hey Veirva." Dante suddenly asks a little more serious. "Are you scared of me, or, perhaps do you hate me?" He isn't sure why he felt the urge to ask her such a question. He feeling an urge, one that he can't explain, to be closer to her, to make sure she stays right where she is and that she doesn't try to run away from him, from her fate.
Vierva feels a chill run down her spine at the sudden seriousness in Dante's voice, his tone shifting from playful to deadly serious in the space of a heartbeat. She meets his gaze, her sage green eyes wide and uncertain as she struggles to reconcile the charming, flirtatious man before her with the dark, dangerous one lurking beneath the surface.
Hates him? Vierva repeats silently, a flicker of shock and disbelief. Does he really think I could hate him? After everything that's happened, everything he's done...
She takes a slow, steadying breath, weighing her words carefully before speaking. "I'm not scared of you," she says finally, her voice low and measured. "And I don't hate you.
Dante feels a strange sense of satisfaction wash over him at Vierva's words, a warmth blossoming in his chest that has nothing to do with the rich wine he's been sipping. He watches as she takes a trembling sip of her own drink, her slender fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass in a white-knuckled grip.
She's not scared of me, he muses, a flicker of something almost like tenderness softening his gaze as he takes in the delicate lines of her face, the vulnerable curve of her neck as she tilts her head back to take a sip of her wine. And she doesn't hate me. That's...unexpected.
It's a revelation that leaves Dante strangely pleased, a sense of contentment settling over him like a well-worn cloak. He's used to people being unafraid of him, not after the things he's done, the choices he's made. And resentment? That's a common enough reaction, one he's grown accustomed to over the years.
But Vierva...she's different.
The thought lingers in Dante's mind, a thread of something almost like admiration weaving through his dark musings. She sees me, really sees me, in a way that no one else ever has. She's not cowed by my reputation, not blinded by my wealth or my power. She looks at me and she...accepts me. As I am.
The realization is unsettling, a disruption to the carefully crafted facade Dante has honed over the years. But it's also strangely exhilarating, a thrill that races through his veins and sets his heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with violence or danger.
I want to keep this feeling, Dante vows silently, his gaze still fixed upon Vierva's lovely face, his mind already racing with plans and schemes. I want to hold onto this moment, this connection, and see where it leads.
But even as the thought forms, Dante knows that he'll have to tread carefully, to navigate this new terrain with a delicacy and a caution that goes against every instinct he possesses. Because Vierva...Vierva is a wild card, a variable he can't control or predict.
And that, in itself, is the greatest danger of all.