The smell of smoke and blood clung to me, coating my tongue and my skin like a film I couldn’t scrub away. Even as the SUV sped us away from the warehouse, the world outside reduced to streaks of neon and shadow, I couldn’t stop shaking. My knees pressed tight together, my arms wrapped around my ribs as if I could hold myself in place before I came apart.

The images wouldn’t leave. The Russian’s body jerking when Dante’s bullet found him. The spray of warmth across my face, hot and metallic, proof of a life snuffed out inches from me. His eyes, wide with shock, the sound of him falling.

And Dante’s voice, cutting through the chaos like steel—You’re mine.

I pressed my palms harder against my ears, but the words echoed anyway.

Dante sat beside me, unreadable as ever, his gun still in his lap, his suit streaked with ash and dirt. Only a smear of blood on his temple betrayed that he’d been in the middle of hell with the rest of them. He hadn’t so much as wiped it away.

Every nerve screamed at me to hate him, to despise the man who had dragged me into this nightmare. But when the Russian’s hand clamped around my arm, when the cold barrel pressed to my temple, it hadn’t been my father I prayed for.

It had been Dante.

The SUV jolted to a stop inside another compound, this one smaller, quieter, tucked behind high gates and barbed wire. Dante was out of the car before I’d even unclenched my fists. His men swarmed, barking orders, checking weapons, moving with the urgency of soldiers after a near-miss.

The door opened on my side. Dante’s hand appeared, palm up, waiting.

I stared at it, the same hand that had fired the shot, the same hand that had touched me like a brand, the same hand that had killed and claimed in the same breath.

I didn’t take it. I climbed out on my own, my legs wobbling.

Dante’s eyes flicked over me, cataloguing every tremor, every smear of blood on my skin. His jaw tightened. “Inside. Now.”

The tone brooked no argument, but I didn’t have the strength to fight. I followed, silent, into a house that was both fortress and prison. Marble floors, steel-reinforced windows, cameras tucked into corners. A place meant to withstand war.

A room on the second floor had been prepared. Not the lavish chambers of some spoiled mistress—just a stark space with a bed, a dresser, a single chair. The air smelled of antiseptic, not perfume.

Dante shut the door behind us, locking it with a decisive click.

I spun on him. “Why bring me here? Why not just leave me to rot in that warehouse?” My voice cracked, brittle and shrill.

His gaze didn’t flinch. “Because you’d be dead. And I don’t let other men touch what belongs to me.”

The words punched through me, furious and confusing all at once. “I don’t belong to you!”

“You do,” he said simply, stepping closer. “Until I decide otherwise.”

My back hit the dresser before I realized I’d been retreating. He stopped just shy of touching me, his presence a wall of heat and command.

“Take it off,” he said quietly.

I froze. “What?”

“The shirt.” His eyes flicked down to the streak of blood across my blouse, then back to mine. “It isn’t yours. It’s his. You’re wearing him on your skin.”

The air left my lungs in a rush. My hands trembled as I glanced down, seeing the dark stains splattered across the fabric. The Russian’s blood. His death, marking me.

“I—” My throat closed.

Dante didn’t wait. His fingers brushed the first button, swift and unyielding. My breath caught, my pulse leaping.

“Don’t—” I whispered, but it came out thin, powerless.

His eyes snapped to mine, sharp, searching. For a moment, his hand stilled. Then softer, though no less firm: “You need it gone. Trust me.”

Two words I never thought I’d hear from him. Trust me.

Something inside me wavered, fragile and reluctant. My fingers rose to my blouse, fumbling with the buttons. He didn’t help this time, just stood there, watching, his jaw tight, his gaze heavy.

When the fabric slid from my shoulders, I stood trembling in the pale light, clad only in the thin lace camisole I’d worn underneath. My skin prickled under his stare, not from shame, but from the heat of it.

Dante lifted the ruined blouse and tossed it into a bin by the door as if discarding filth. Then he stepped closer, lifting a cloth from the dresser, damp and cool.

“Sit,” he commanded, nodding to the chair.

I sat, heart thundering. He knelt before me, his height still imposing even when lowered. His hands—those hands—pressed the cloth gently against my cheek, wiping away the flecks of blood.

The world tilted. This man, this ruthless, merciless king of shadows, knelt at my knees, his touch careful, precise.

My breath hitched. “Why are you—”

“Because I won’t have you stained by another man’s death,” he cut in, his voice quiet but fierce.

His thumb brushed my jaw as he turned my face, cleaning each mark. My skin burned where he touched, though the cloth was cool.

“I killed him,” I whispered, the words trembling free. “Because of me. He died because of me.”

Dante’s hand stilled, then resumed with steady patience. “He died because he touched what was mine. Don’t carry his sins.”

My eyes met his. The air thickened, charged, heavy with something unspoken. His pupils darkened, his jaw tight, as though fighting a war inside himself.

“Dante…” My voice broke on his name.

The cloth slipped from his hand, forgotten on the floor. His palm lingered on my cheek, rough and warm, cradling me in a way that made my chest ache.

For one wild second, I leaned into it. Into him.

His breath brushed across my lips, his face closer now, the distance between us shrinking like it had always been meant to disappear. My pulse roared, my body traitorous, drawn to the very man I should loathe.

And then—

A sharp knock shattered the moment.

Dante jerked back, rising in one fluid motion, mask slamming down over his features again. His voice snapped like a whip. “What?”

A muffled reply from the other side: “Boss, urgent call. It’s the Russians. They know about the girl.”

My blood ran cold.

Dante’s jaw flexed once, twice, his fury barely leashed. He threw one last look at me—something dark, something dangerous, something too close to desire—before he strode to the door.

The lock clicked open, his figure filling the doorway like a shadow of fate.

“You don’t move,” he ordered, without turning back. “Not an inch.”

Then he was gone, and I was left trembling, my lips tingling with the ghost of what almost happened, my body betraying me in ways I couldn’t forgive.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to escape him at all.