The sweetness of mango still lingered bitterly on Ishani's tongue as she pushed her plate away. Her jaw was tight, her shoulders stiff. Dante, however, was the picture of satisfaction, sipping his coffee slowly as though feeding her had been a victory carved in stone.
She hated him more in moments like this—when he wasn't brutal, but insidiously tender. It was harder to hate tenderness. Harder to keep the line between rage and confusion sharp.
She wiped her lips with the napkin quickly, trying to erase the feel of his fingers brushing her skin earlier. But Dante noticed, of course he did. His eyes glittered with lazy amusement as he set his cup down and rose from his chair.
"You missed a spot," he murmured.
Before she could snap a reply, his hand came down—calloused fingers tilting her chin upward, his thumb grazing the corner of her mouth with unbearable slowness. The touch was light, almost innocent. But on him, nothing was innocent.
Her breath caught, her chest tightening. Then the fury ignited.
"Don't touch me!" she hissed, slapping his hand away with a sharp crack.
Dante's smirk only widened. "Ah, there's the fire."
"I'm not your plaything," she spat, shoving back her chair. "You don't get to treat me like some pet you can feed and stroke."
His laugh was low, dark, the sound curling around her like smoke. "Pet? No, bella. You're not a pet." He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing hers, until her back bumped the edge of the table. "Pets obey. You bite."
"Then maybe I should bite harder." Her eyes blazed, her chin tilting up in defiance.
For a moment, silence stretched taut between them, their breaths tangling in the narrow space. Then, with the sudden speed of a predator, Ishani shoved him square in the chest.
He stumbled back half a step, not from force but from surprise. His grin sharpened into something feral.
"There she is," Dante said, voice dropping to a husky growl. "The cat with claws."
Her pulse hammered, her fists clenched, ready for him to lash out. But instead, he laughed again—dark and delighted.
"You fight like this because you want me to chase you," he said.
Her glare was molten. "Or maybe I fight because one day I'll sink my claws deep enough to make you bleed."
He leaned in again, close enough that his breath fanned her cheek, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the game. "Then scratch, bella. Scratch as hard as you want. Every mark you leave only makes you mine."
Her stomach knotted. Her fury tangled with heat, with shame, with the unbearable weight of his presence pressing in on her. She hated that he made her body betray her rage—trembling, burning, alive.
But she also knew one thing with crystal clarity: she would keep fighting, clawing, until either she broke free… or he broke her completely.