The chain at her ankle clinked with every tiny movement, its cold bite a reminder of her failed rebellion. Ishani sat rigid in the chair, her food untouched, every muscle tense. She refused to look at him, refused to give Dante Moretti the satisfaction.
But Dante was patient. He sat across from her, silent, watching. That was the worst of it—not the chains, not the command to eat. His watching. His ice-blue eyes devouring her without a word, stripping her pride bare.
Finally, he rose, slow and deliberate. She tensed as he approached, her pulse leaping.
"Your silence bores me," he said softly, crouching beside her chair. His hand rested on the armrest, his body too close, his scent wrapping around her. "I think I prefer you when you fight."
She snapped her head toward him, anger flashing. "Then you'll starve, because I won't dance for your amusement."
He smirked, leaning in. "Oh, bella. You're already dancing. Every breath, every tremor—you're mine to read."
Her chest heaved. She tried to push back, but his hand caught hers, his thumb tracing over her knuckles with unsettling tenderness. Too tender for a captor. Too lingering for an enemy.
She jerked her hand away, but the chain at her ankle betrayed her—it rattled loudly, mocking her. Dante's eyes darkened at the sound, and slowly, he reached down.
Her breath stilled as he lifted her chained ankle into his palm. His fingers wrapped around her skin, strong and deliberate, his touch searing through the thin fabric of her churidar.
"What are you—" Her voice broke when his thumb stroked over the delicate bone of her ankle. The movement was slow, cruelly intimate.
He looked up at her, his gaze burning. "Chains are supposed to humiliate. To weaken. But on you…" His voice lowered, husky. "…they make you irresistible."
Her throat went dry, fury battling something hotter, something treacherous. "You're sick."
"Maybe." He pressed her foot back down, but not before letting his hand linger a second too long, stroking her calf as if memorizing the curve. "But you'll learn something, bella—in my sickness, you're the cure. The more I restrain you, the more I want to touch."
She bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to shiver, but her body betrayed her—her pulse thrummed visibly at her throat.
He stood then, towering over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. His hand brushed her cheek suddenly, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"You hate me," he murmured, his thumb brushing her lower lip with maddening slowness. "And yet, every time I touch you, your breath falters. Why is that, Ishani?"
Her lips parted, but no words came.
He smiled faintly, wickedly, before withdrawing his hand. "Think about it. That is your punishment."
And with that, he left her chained, burning with fury, shame… and a heat she could not explain.
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