Dante's POV
She's mine.
She just doesn't know it yet.
I watch her. Slumped in the chair, head hanging forward, her breath uneven and shallow. Bruised. Bloodied. Fragile as a broken doll.
The sight does something to me.
Something dark.
A cold rage hums beneath my skin, not for the men I just cut down, but for the fact that she looks like she could die. My property. My fucking possession.
That is not allowed.
Her pulse flutters weakly against her throat. She's holding on by a thread. Barely.
Then her body shudders. Her lashes flicker.
She's fighting it. Fighting the pull of unconsciousness.
"Shhh, little one," I murmur.
She tenses at my voice, but she's too far gone to resist. Her body sways, her breath catching as her broken ribs shift.
Her pain should amuse me.
It doesn't.
It belongs to me now.
I step closer, reaching out.
She flinches, a tiny, pathetic movement, like a wounded thing that already knows it can't escape.
Good.
I grip her chin, tilting her face up. Forcing her to look at me.
Her lips tremble. Her skin burns under my touch.
I take in every inch of her—the split lip, the dark bruises, the raw wrists still bound to the chair.
So small. So weak.
She was never meant for this world.
And yet, she's in my hands now.
A tiny, broken thing.
Mine.
Her breath shudders, and then—
Her body goes limp.
Gone.
I release her chin. Her head lolls forward, her dark hair falling in a tangled mess over her ruined dress.
The silence stretches.
Then I move.
My arms slip around her, lifting her gently. Her weight is nothing. Pathetic. Light.
She belongs in my arms.
I carry her through the warehouse, her breath barely there, her body sagging against my chest.
I take her outside. The night is cold, but she won't feel it. Not when I take her to where she belongs.
To my mansion.
To her new prison.