LightReader

Chapter 4 - Better than what? You? Because that wouldn't be hard, Ashford. Not at all.

Dante's POV

The second she left the dining room, the sharp, quick click of her retreating heels echoing in the sudden void she left behind, I knew I wouldn't let her get far. That fierce, defiant exit was a challenge, not a retreat. Her footsteps faded into the hallway, a diminishing staccato against the polished marble, and for a deliberate moment, I waited. Let her think she'd escaped, let the illusion of victory settle over her. Let her stew in whatever righteous, flimsy little rage she believed she'd earned. I wanted her to feel that fleeting sense of accomplishment, only to snatch it away.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, I pushed my chair back, the muffled scrape of mahogany against marble the only sound. I dropped my napkin, a pristine white square, onto the table beside my untouched plate, a gesture of dismissive finality. And then I stood, the tension in my shoulders a tight, coiled spring, and walked out after her.

"Dante!" Berenda's voice, shrill and indignant, sliced through the air behind me. I heard the frantic rustle of her dress as she probably rose from the table. But I didn't bother looking back. Her protests were irrelevant, a mosquito buzzing against a hurricane. My focus was absolute, singular, fixed on the trail Cassidy had blazed.

I found her outside, just as I'd anticipated. The night was a heavy, cold shroud, wrapped around the Ashford estate. Moonlight, a pale, ethereal silver, spilled across the sprawling courtyard, painting the meticulously manicured gardens and ancient stone walls with an otherworldly glow. She stood at the very edge of the vast, open space, her slight figure stark against the monumental architecture of the house. Her hands gripped the cold, unforgiving stone railing that overlooked a cascading fountain, her knuckles white, her shoulders tense and rigid, coiled tight like a spring. Every line of her body screamed defiance, yet also a desperate fragility.

When she heard my footsteps, slow and deliberate on the gravel path, she didn't turn. She knew it was me. There was an almost imperceptible tightening of her grip on the stone, a subtle clenching of her jaw that I could sense even from behind her.

"What?" she bit out, her voice raw, laced with the same anger that had driven her from the table. "Here to throw me out yourself?" The challenge was clear, almost an invitation.

I stopped a few feet behind her, close enough to feel the faint chill radiating from her rigid posture, close enough to see the tension in the tendons of her neck. I watched her knuckles whiten even further against the rough stone, watched her chest rise and fall in shallow, rapid breaths.

"Tempting," I murmured, my voice a low, dangerous purr that carried easily in the silent night. "But no. Not yet."

She whirled on me then, a sudden, violent movement. Her hazel eyes, in the pale wash of moonlight, glinted with a wild, untamed fury. They were the eyes of a cornered animal, beautiful and dangerous. Her hair, still in that messy ponytail, seemed to shimmer in the silver light, little tendrils escaping to frame a face flushed with rage.

"Then what do you want?" Her voice was a snarl, devoid of any pretense of politeness. She was done playing the role.

I closed the distance between us slowly, deliberately, savoring the way her body stiffened with every agonizing step I took. Each measured pace was a violation of her space, a deliberate invasion designed to heighten her discomfort, to strip away her composure. When I was directly in front of her, the space between us charged and humming with an almost physical tension, I stopped.

"You," I said finally, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that seemed to ripple through the quiet night. "To stop pretending you're better than this. Stop pretending you're not exactly what I know you are."

Her laugh was sharp, sudden, and utterly devoid of humor. It was a cutting sound, brittle with contempt. "Better than what? You? Because that wouldn't be hard, Ashford. Not at all." The words were flung like daggers, and a strange, unwelcome flicker of something—a twisted admiration for her audacity—stirred within me.

I smirked, a slow, cruel twist of my lips. "Better than me, better than this house, better than your mother. You're not. You're just like her. Just another little gold-digger playing innocent while you wait for your chance to sink your claws in. Waiting for your moment to capitalize on some old fool's misguided affections." My voice was a low, cutting mockery, designed to strip away every layer of her carefully constructed defiance. I watched her, waiting for the flinch, the break in her composure.

Instead, she did something unexpected. She stepped closer, closing the last few inches between us. Her face was inches from mine now, so close I could feel the warmth of her breath, quick and shallow against my skin. Her eyes, those captivating hazel eyes, burned with a furious, unyielding intensity that made my own breath hitch for a fraction of a second.

More Chapters