Chapter 8 - Behind Closed Doors
The adrenaline didn't begin to fade until we returned to Dante’s penthouse past midnight.
The city lights below looked like spilled diamonds across black velvet. The gold compass and leather ledger sat securely on the marble island in the kitchen, a tangible reminder that Roman was losing ground faster than he could comprehend.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, unpinning the diamond combs from my hair and letting the dark waves fall over my shoulders. My reflection showed a woman I barely recognized—someone fierce, untamed, and entirely free.
A soft click of a lock sounded behind me. Dante walked into the room, having unbuttoned his collar and loosened his bowtie. He set two glasses of water on the counter, but he didn't drink. He just looked at me.
“You held your own tonight,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register that always made my heart skip a beat.
“I had good backup,” I replied, turning to face him. “Thank you, Dante. For the ledger. For standing between him and me.”
“He had no right to lay a finger on you,” Dante said, his expression darkening at the memory. “Not then. Not ever.”
He walked across the slate floor until he was standing directly before me. In the dim ambient light of the penthouse, the air between us suddenly grew thick, charged with an intensity that had been simmering since I first stepped into his car.
“Roman was right about one thing,” I murmured, searching his dark eyes. “You’ve wanted his territory for five years. Taking his wife and his shipping lines is the ultimate checkmate.”
Dante took another half-step forward. He didn't touch me, but his heat radiated across the inches separating us.
“Roman is a fool,” Dante said quietly. “He thought the prize was the shipping lines. He thought the empire was built on concrete and steel.”
“And what is it built on?”
Dante lifted one hand, his calloused fingertips gently brushing against the curve of my jaw, trailing down to the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered against his skin. His touch was electric, burning away the phantom memory of Roman’s cold, possessive grip.
“I didn't take you out of that ballroom to hurt Roman,” Dante confessed, his gaze searing into mine. “I did it because three years ago, at the Governor’s Ball, you walked into the room in a white dress, and I realized I had built a kingdom with no queen to share it with. But you were already wearing his ring.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Dante…”
“I stayed away because you were married,” he continued, his fingers slipping into my hair, holding me with an exquisite blend of reverence and raw hunger. “I respected that line. But the second he brought another woman into your house, the second you took that ring off your finger… all bets were off.”
Before I could speak, his mouth came down on mine.
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It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't cruel—it was a deep, possessing, breathtaking collision that parted my lips with a ragged gasp. I reached up, my hands gripping his broad shoulders, pulling him closer as the last remnants of my old life shattered and melted away into the fire he ignited.
***
