Dante's bedroom was nothing like I expected.
I'd imagined something cold and minimalist all black furniture and sharp edges, matching the man who lived there. Instead, the master suite was surprisingly… warm.
Dark wood floors. A massive four-poster bed with deep blue bedding. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, currently covered by blackout curtains. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with volumes in multiple languages. A sitting area with leather chairs and a fireplace. And in the corner, a door that Rosa explained led to the panic room reinforced steel, independent air supply, enough supplies to last a week.
"You'll sleep there," Dante said, pointing to the bed.
"And you?"
"The couch in my office. It's through that door." He gestured to a side room I hadn't noticed. "I have work to do anyway. You'll be safe here. The bedroom locks from the inside, and there's a button by the bed that alerts security directly."
"You're not sleeping in here?" I didn't know whether to feel relieved or… disappointed?
"Not tonight. You've been through enough without adding that to your stress." He moved to the closet, pulling out a t-shirt.
"You can wear this to sleep. Your things are being moved from the other room."
The t-shirt was soft and huge, smelling like his cologne. I took it, my fingers brushing his, and felt that familiar electric shock of contact.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't thank me yet. We don't know when the Volkovs will make their move." His jaw tightened. "But they will. They always do."
After he left, I changed into his shirt and climbed into his bed. The sheets smelled like him that dark, masculine scent that I was beginning to associate with safety instead of danger.
I thought I'd never sleep. Thought I'd lie awake all night thinking about threats and training and the way Dante had looked when he'd talked about his sister.
But exhaustion won. Within minutes, I was out.
The nightmare came without warning.
I was back at the auction, but this time when the men grabbed me, they didn't take me to the stage. They dragged me somewhere dark. Somewhere underground. And Marco was there, alive but covered in blood, laughing as they.
"Isabella! Wake up!"
I bolted upright, gasping, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. Strong hands gripped my shoulders, and I lashed out instinctively, using the moves Dante had taught me just hours ago.
"It's me! It's Dante!" His voice cut through my panic. "Isabella, look at me. You're safe. You're in my room. You're safe."
My vision cleared enough to see him kneeling beside the bed, his hair disheveled, wearing only pajama pants. His hands were still on my shoulders, steady and warm.
"Dante?" My voice came out small, broken.
"You were screaming." Concern flickered in his grey eyes. "The nightmare?"
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Tears streamed down my face, and I couldn't stop shaking.
Without a word, Dante climbed into the bed beside me, pulling me against his chest. I should have pushed him away. Should have maintained distance. But I was too scared, too shaken, too desperate for the comfort of another human being.
So I buried my face against his bare chest and cried.
He didn't say anything. Just held me, one hand stroking my hair while the other wrapped protectively around my waist. His heartbeat was steady against my ear strong, reliable, alive.
"I'm sorry," I finally managed to say. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"Don't apologize for nightmares." His voice rumbled in his chest. "God knows I have enough of my own."
"About Sofia?"
"About everyone I couldn't save." His hand stilled in my hair. "About everyone I did save, but too late. About all the violence I've committed and the violence I've witnessed. Some nights, I don't sleep at all."
I pulled back enough to look at his face. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, he looked younger. More vulnerable. Almost human instead of the cold killer I'd met days ago.
"How do you live with it?" I asked. "The killing. The violence. How do you not let it destroy you?"
"Who says it hasn't?" A sad smile crossed his face. "I'm not the man I was before my father died, Isabella. That boy died with him. What I am now is what I had to become to survive."
"But there's still good in you. I've seen it. The way you protected me. The way you talk about Sofia. The way Rosa and your staff look at you with respect, not just fear."
"That's because I take care of the people who are loyal to me." His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing away a tear. "Loyalty is everything in my world. Betray it, and I'm a monster. Honor it, and I'll move heaven and earth to protect you."
"Is that what I am now? Someone you're loyal to?"
"You're" He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "You're under my protection. That means something."
"But I'm still just property you bought."
"No." The word was firm. "You stopped being just property the moment you looked at me without fear in the gym today. When you listened to my story about Sofia without judgment. When you started fighting back instead of just surviving." His forehead pressed against mine. "You're becoming something else, Isabella. Something I didn't plan for."
"What?" I whispered, my heart racing for an entirely different reason now.
"Someone who matters."
Before I could respond, before I could think or question or push him away, Dante kissed me.
Not rough or demanding like I'd expected. Gentle. Almost tentative. Like he was asking permission instead of taking.
And God help me, I kissed him back.
My hands slid up his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart, the barely restrained power in his muscles. His arms tightened around me, pulling me closer, and the kiss deepened.
This wasn't the kiss of a captor and captive. This was something else. Something real and complicated and probably doomed, but real nonetheless.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Dante rested his forehead against mine.
"I shouldn't have done that," he murmured.
"Why did you?"
"Because I wanted to. Because watching you fight today, seeing you try to understand my world instead of just running from it" He pulled back to look at me. "You're under my skin, Isabella. And I don't know what to do about it."
"I don't know either." My hand was still on his chest, feeling his heartbeat race. "This is insane. You kidnapped me"
"I bought you"
"Same thing! You own me. You've killed people in front of me. I should hate you. I should be planning my escape every second of every day." I looked up at him, confusion and desire warring in my chest. "So why don't I? Why do I feel safe when you're near? Why did I kiss you back?"
"Stockholm syndrome?" he offered with a slight smile.
"Don't joke about this."
"I'm not joking. I'm terrified." He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "I've never felt this way about anyone, Isabella. Not even" He stopped himself.
"Not even her? The woman you were going to marry before?"
"There was no woman." He sighed, seeming to make a decision. "That was a lie. Cover story for why I cut ties with my family. The truth is messier."
"Tell me."