The night bled into silence. The villa was asleep, but Ishani wasn't.
The chain at her ankle mocked her with its weight, every clink reminding her she was caged. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the darkened window, her body taut with a thousand unspoken rebellions.
The door creaked open.
Her head snapped up, fury sparking, but it wasn't a guard. It was him.
Dante Moretti, in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open, his eyes shadowed in the dim light. He stepped inside without a word, closing the door softly behind him.
"What do you want now?" she spat, wrapping her dupatta tighter around her body as if it could shield her.
He didn't answer. He walked to her slowly, like a predator savoring every step, until he stood before her. His gaze raked her face, her lips, her trembling hands.
"I told myself I'd wait," he murmured, voice low, threaded with something dangerous. "But every second you breathe under my roof… you test me."
Her throat tightened. "Then stop watching me."
A faint smile curved his lips. "Impossible."
Before she could move, he bent, bracing one hand on the mattress beside her thigh, the other catching her chin. His face was so close she could feel the heat of his breath, the faint graze of his stubble brushing her skin.
"Say it," he whispered, his lips hovering a whisper from hers. "Say you hate me. Say it while you're trembling like this."
Her chest heaved, fury and fear tangling in her blood. "I do hate you," she hissed, her voice breaking against the heat of his closeness.
But her pulse betrayed her, pounding so hard she thought he must feel it.
He chuckled darkly, his nose brushing hers, the air between them crackling with forbidden heat. "Liar."
His thumb slid along her jaw, tracing down to the curve of her throat. Her breath hitched as he lingered there, feeling the frantic rhythm of her pulse. His eyes locked on hers, blue fire swallowing her whole.
For one endless second, she thought he'd do it. She thought he'd claim her mouth, steal what he believed was already his. Her body leaned despite her mind's screams, traitorous and aching.
But then—he stopped.
Dante drew back a fraction, his smirk sharp, knowing. "Not yet, bella. When I take you… it won't be because you're chained. It'll be because you can't stop yourself."
Her lips trembled, words dying in her throat. Rage burned hot in her chest, but beneath it—shame. Shame for the part of her that hadn't pulled away.
Dante straightened, his gaze never leaving her. "Sleep well, lawyer. Dream of me."
And with that, he turned, leaving her alone, her heart hammering, her body still burning with the ghost of his nearness.
She clutched the bedsheet, furious tears pricking her eyes. She hated him. She hated him more than anything.
So why did she feel hollow when he walked away?