Alina's heart pounded as the weight of her decision settled over her. She'd whispered one word to Dante, barely audible but irrevocable.
"Yes."
Now, seated beside him in his sleek black car, the city lights flickering through the tinted windows, she questioned if she had just signed her own death warrant—or her salvation.
"Where are we going?" she asked softly, breaking the heavy silence between them.
Dante's hands gripped the steering wheel, his expression unreadable. "Somewhere safe."
"Safe?" She let out a bitter laugh. "In this city? With you?"
He shot her a glance, half amusement, half warning. "You don't trust me."
"Would you?" she challenged.
"No," he admitted, smirking. "But you're here, aren't you?"
Alina hated that he was right. Hated that something about him—his darkness, his honesty—made her feel seen in a way no one else ever had.
They drove in silence until the neon glow of the city faded behind them. Dante pulled into the long, narrow driveway of a secluded house on the outskirts of town. It was modern, sleek, and surrounded by dense woods. Isolated. Hidden.
Perfect for someone with enemies.
Inside, the house was surprisingly warm, with low lighting and the faint smell of cedar and leather. Alina wrapped her arms around herself as she took it in.
"You live here alone?" she asked, trying to ease the tension gnawing at her.
Dante leaned against the doorway, watching her with that unnerving intensity. "Most of the time."
She turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. "And the rest?"
He smirked but didn't answer.
Frustrated, she pressed on. "So, what now? Am I your hostage? Your… prize?"
Dante's smile faded. "You're not a hostage, Alina. And you're definitely not a prize."
"Then what am I?" she whispered.
His dark eyes locked onto hers. "Mine."
The word sent a shiver down her spine, a mixture of fear and undeniable want.
Before she could respond, Dante stepped closer, his voice low. "Your father's enemies won't stop until they've used you to get to him. And trust me, Viktor has more enemies than even he knows."
"So you're my savior now?" she asked bitterly.
"No," Dante replied softly. "I'm your consequence."
Alina's breath caught. She knew this wasn't love. It wasn't even trust. It was something darker, more dangerous. An unspoken understanding between two people who knew too much of violence and too little of peace.
But as much as she wanted to run, she knew it was too late.
She was already his.
Hours later, Alina sat alone in the dimly lit living room, lost in thought. The weight of her choice pressed down on her, suffocating in its finality. She wasn't sure what scared her more—what she'd left behind or what she was walking into.
The soft sound of footsteps broke her thoughts. She looked up to see Dante, his gaze unreadable as always.
"You should sleep," he said quietly.
"I can't," she whispered back.
He hesitated before sitting down beside her, the warmth of his presence impossible to ignore. For a moment, they sat in silence, the tension between them electric.
Then, softly, Alina asked the question that had haunted her since the beginning.
"Why me?"
Dante's jaw tightened, as if the answer hurt to give. "Because you remind me of something I thought I lost."
"What?"
He looked at her then, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Hope."
Alina's chest ached at his words, at the vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. And in that moment, despite every warning in her head, she knew.
She was falling.
And there was no going back.