Dante's POV
"And you're predictable," I shot back, not missing a beat. The words were automatic, ingrained.
"And you're an asshole," she added, her voice sharp, surprising me with the quickness of her retort. It was delivered with a casual confidence that grated on my nerves.
I chuckled low under my breath, a dark, dangerous sound. I took a deliberate, loud bite of the apple, the crisp snap of its skin echoing in the vast kitchen. "Fair," I said around the mouthful, the word slightly distorted by the fruit. "But at least I'm honest about it. Unlike you. Unlike your mother. You both cloak your greed in such sickeningly sweet pretenses."
She finally spun back around, her hazel eyes blazing with an incandescent fury that matched the fire in her moonlit hair. "What exactly is it you think you know about me, Dante? Huh? That I asked for any of this? That I wanted to move into this mausoleum and deal with you every single day? That I enjoy being subjected to your pompous, unfounded accusations?" Her voice was rising, trembling with indignation, but still holding its own.
I leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest, a picture of insouciant arrogance. I let her anger wash over me like a storm, a tempest I had been waiting for, had perhaps even instigated. This raw, untamed fury was far more interesting than her calculated quiet.
"You don't have to want it," I said evenly, my voice calm, almost detached, a stark contrast to her raging inferno. "That's irrelevant. The fact remains: You're still here. Still standing in my kitchen. Still drinking my coffee. Still leeching off my father's name, his wealth, his good graces. Same as your mother. You're parasites, both of you, clinging to the only source of sustenance you can find."
That did it. The words, delivered with a precision designed to wound, struck their target. Her cheeks flushed a violent crimson, a stark contrast to her pale skin, and she slammed the mug down on the counter with a force that made the ceramic rattle dangerously. She took a step closer, then another, until we were only inches apart, the air between us crackling with an almost palpable electricity.
"You're right about one thing," she said, her voice low and shaking with fury, barely a whisper yet vibrating with intensity. Her eyes were fixed on mine, unwavering, luminous with rage. "This isn't your kitchen. Or your house. Or your world. It's his. My stepfather's. My mother's husband's. And newsflash, Ashford — the only reason you're here, breathing this rarefied air, looking down on everyone, is because you were born lucky. Don't act like you earned it. Don't act like you're anything more than a privileged, entitled leech yourself."
For a second – just a second – I didn't have a comeback. Her words struck home with an unnerving accuracy, piercing through my carefully constructed armor. Because she was right. And she knew it. She had seen through the facade of my cultivated disdain, recognized the raw truth beneath my calculated aggression. The realization was a jarring, unwelcome shock.
But I couldn't let her win. Not now. Not ever.
So, I recovered, a lazy smirk slowly spreading across my lips. I leaned in, deliberately invading her space again, forcing her to tilt her chin even further to maintain eye contact, to keep staring me down.
"Careful," I murmured, my voice a low, teasing rasp against the sudden silence. "You keep talking to me like that, with such passion, and people might start to think you actually like me." The implication was clear, designed to provoke, to embarrass, to remind her of the dangerous line she was treading.
Her lips parted, a gasp caught in her throat, but no sound came out. Her breath hitched, a small, audible sound, and I caught the faintest flicker in her eyes – something between shock and a horrified recognition – before she finally, reluctantly, stepped back. The spell was broken, the dangerous proximity shattered.
"You wish," she muttered, her voice barely audible, but the anger was still there, a simmering undercurrent beneath the forced disdain.
And then she grabbed her coffee mug, her fingers gripping it tightly, and practically stormed out of the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. She left me standing there, the scent of her coffee and that wild, sweet fragrance lingering in the air, a persistent reminder of her unwelcome presence.
I was still smirking.
Still thinking about the way her voice had cracked when she said my name, "Dante," a fragile, almost intimate sound amidst her fury.
Still wondering how much longer either of us could keep this up. How long before the carefully constructed walls between us crumbled completely, revealing something far more volatile, far more dangerous, than either of us were ready for. The game was escalating, and I found myself, despite my every intention, strangely eager for the next move.