The storm returned that night. Fierce winds lashed against the villa, lightning flashing across the sea. Ishani sat curled in the corner of her room, trying to ignore the howling outside. The chain was gone now—Dante had removed it earlier, smirking, as if daring her to try running again.
The lights flickered once. Twice. Then darkness swallowed the villa.
Her heart skipped. Silence pressed in, broken only by the roar of the storm. She stood, fumbling for the switch, but nothing happened.
Then came the heavy knock on her door.
It opened before she could answer. Dante stepped inside, carrying a single candle, its glow painting his features in molten shadows. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his hair tousled as though the storm itself had touched him.
"The power's gone," he said casually, setting the candle on the table. "Until it's fixed, you'll stay with me."
Her eyes widened. "Absolutely not."
His smirk was slow, cruel. "You'd rather sit in the dark, shaking, while thunder rattles your bones?"
"I'm not scared of storms."
"Then prove it." He leaned closer, his voice a low purr. "Stay in your room. Alone. I'll leave the candle."
She hesitated. Her pride screamed to refuse, but the shadows clawed at her resolve. He knew it too—she saw it in the gleam of his eyes.
"Fine," she snapped, shoving past him. "But don't think this means I trust you."
Dante chuckled, following her down the hall. "Oh, bella. You'll trust me long before you admit it."
He led her into his chambers—larger, darker, suffocating with power. Lightning lit the room for an instant, revealing the massive bed draped in black sheets. Ishani froze, her stomach knotting.
"I'll take the floor," she said quickly.
"No," Dante replied smoothly, closing the door with a decisive click. "You'll take the bed."
Her head whipped toward him. "And you?"
His smirk widened. "The bed as well."
Her pulse spiked. "You're insane if you think I'll—"
"Relax," he drawled, tugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a chair. "I don't need to touch you to own you. Sharing a bed will be enough."
She stood rooted, every nerve screaming. But when thunder cracked so violently the window rattled, she flinched—barely, but enough. His smirk softened into something darker, hungrier.
"See? You do tremble," he murmured.
Fury burned her cheeks as she marched to the bed and climbed in, turning her back to him. She yanked the blanket to her chin, rigid as stone.
Moments later, the mattress dipped. His warmth bled into the space between them. He didn't touch her—but his presence was overwhelming, his breath steady, measured.
"Goodnight, Ishani," he whispered into the storm. "Try not to dream of me too loudly."
Her eyes squeezed shut, her heart a traitor in her chest. She hated him. She hated the way her body hummed with awareness of every inch of him behind her.
But worst of all, she hated how safe she felt—caged not by chains, but by the shadow of his obsession.
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