Dante's POV
The thin, oppressive darkness of my room clung to me, a familiar comfort, but even that couldn't silence the intrusion that pulled me from the shallow depths of sleep. It was the faint, almost imperceptible sound of footsteps downstairs. Not the heavy, measured tread of the house staff, nor the frantic scurry of my father's assistant arriving with urgent paperwork. These were light, almost hesitant, yet undeniably present.
It was early. Too early for Berenda's shrill, performative voice to pierce the morning calm, too early for the incessant ringing of my father's business calls to echo through the expansive halls. Which meant, with a cold certainty that tightened my jaw, it could only be one person.
Her.
Cassidy.
The knowledge sent an unwelcome jolt through me. I threw off the silk sheets, the cool air of the pre-dawn house raising goosebumps on my skin. I pulled on a dark grey hoodie, its soft fabric a familiar second skin, ran a hand through my perpetually messy dark hair, and headed down. Not out of curiosity, I told myself, but to assert my dominance. To remind her whose territory this truly was.
Sure enough, there she was in the sprawling, state-of-the-art kitchen. The first tendrils of dawn, weak but insistent, streamed through the tall, arched windows, bathing the room in a soft, nascent light. It caught in her hair, igniting the messy strands like fire, transforming them into a halo of unexpected warmth. She was barefoot, clad in black leggings that clung to the slender lines of her legs and an oversized, faded band t-shirt that hung loosely on her frame. She stood at the gleaming granite counter, a mug clutched in her hands, her back to me.
She didn't hear me at first. My footsteps, usually loud and purposeful, were muffled by the thick Persian rug in the hall, then by the cool, polished marble of the kitchen floor. And for a moment – just a fleeting, unexpected moment – I simply… watched her.
The way she blew softly over the surface of her coffee before taking a tentative sip, her lips puckering slightly. The almost imperceptible slump of her shoulders, the way they finally seemed to relax, shedding some of the tension that had encased her since she'd arrived. She thought she was alone, unobserved, and in that brief, unguarded instant, a sliver of raw vulnerability peeked through her defiant facade. It was infuriating.
Pathetic.
Even her quiet presence, the soft, mundane sounds of her morning ritual, made my blood thrum with a sharp, unwelcome anger. She had no right to this peace, this quiet domesticity in my home. She had no right to appear so… at ease, even for a moment.
"You're up early," I drawled finally, my voice deliberately loud, designed to cut through the fragile silence like a knife. It was a pronouncement, an assertion of my presence, a disruption of her stolen moment of calm.
She jumped slightly, a startled reflex, the mug almost slipping from her grasp. Then she turned, slowly, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits when she saw me leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, feigning indifference.
"Yeah," she said flatly, her voice a little rough with sleep, devoid of any attempt at polite conversation. "Didn't feel like sleeping in." Her gaze was defiant, challenging me to say more.
I smirked, a cruel twist of my lips. "What, afraid I'd throw you out if you took too long to crawl out of bed? Afraid I'd decide you were just another useless ornament decorating my father's new life?"
She glared, her eyes flashing with a raw, nascent fury, and set her mug down on the counter with a sharper, more resounding thud than strictly necessary. The ceramic clinked against the granite, a brittle sound.
"Don't flatter yourself," she muttered, her voice low and laced with contempt. "The thought of you is hardly enough to disrupt my sleep."
I pushed off the doorframe, crossing the vast kitchen slowly, deliberately, my footsteps echoing in the high-ceilinged room. I stopped just a few feet from her, close enough for the faint scent of her coffee, mixed with that wild, sweet undercurrent of her own fragrance, to reach me. It was an unwelcome intrusion into my senses.
"You know," I said, picking up a perfectly ripe apple from the crystal fruit bowl on the island, tossing it casually from hand to hand, a silent threat, "you could at least try to play nice. Makes it more believable when you and Mommy Dearest insist you're not here to cash in. Makes it seem less like a calculated invasion."
Her jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in her cheek. She turned back to the counter, presenting me with her rigid back, a clear dismissal. "You're exhausting," she said, her voice strained, barely audible.
"And you're predictable," I shot back, not missing a beat. The words were automatic, ingrained.