The villa felt different in the morning light. Gone were the shadows of the storm; instead, golden rays stretched across the polished floors, glinting off expensive glass and steel. For anyone else, it might have felt like peace. For Ishani, it was another kind of prison—sunlit, suffocating.
She sat at the long dining table, stiff and silent, her hair falling across her face as she stared at the untouched plate before her.
Dante lounged at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, black shirt open at the throat. He looked maddeningly at ease, sipping his coffee like a king surveying his empire.
"You haven't eaten," he remarked, his deep voice echoing lazily in the stillness.
"I'm not hungry," she muttered, eyes fixed on the silver cutlery.
"You'll eat."
Her gaze snapped up, sharp as a blade. "You don't control that."
He smiled slowly, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. "I control everything in this house. Including what keeps you alive."
She swallowed her retort, hating how his words made her pulse jump. He rose, the scrape of his chair loud in the silence, and walked the length of the table with predator's grace.
He stopped beside her, picking up a piece of fruit from her plate. A slice of mango, golden and glistening.
"Open your mouth."
She stared at him, incredulous. "You've lost your mind."
His smirk widened. "Maybe. But my madness has flavor." He held the fruit closer, his voice dropping into a husky murmur. "Open, bella. Or I'll make you."
Her fists clenched in her lap. Every bone in her body screamed to resist. But when his gaze pinned her, relentless and gleaming, she knew he meant it—he'd press that mango to her lips whether she liked it or not.
Slowly, with venom in her glare, she parted her lips.
He slid the fruit between them, his fingertips brushing the corner of her mouth as if by accident. Sweetness burst across her tongue, tainted by the bitter taste of surrender. She chewed slowly, defiantly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Dante's eyes darkened as he watched her, the smirk softening into something far more dangerous. "Good girl."
Heat scorched her cheeks. "Don't call me that."
He leaned closer, his hand braced on the table beside her, his breath brushing her ear. "Then earn another name. But until then… you're mine to call what I please."
Her breath stuttered. The scent of him—coffee, leather, something sharp and masculine—wrapped around her, suffocating. She wanted to shove him away, but her body betrayed her, frozen, caught in the trap of his nearness.
Finally, he drew back, satisfied, and straightened. He took another sip of his coffee, as if nothing had happened.
Ishani forced herself to swallow, her heart pounding, her mind screaming that this wasn't intimacy—it was war, just painted in softer colors.
And yet, the sweetness still lingered on her lips.