Dante's POV
She ran from me once.
Ten years ago, she slipped through my fingers like smoke, disappearing into the world like a ghost. An orphan with no name, no family. A girl who was meant to be mine.
I was supposed to marry her. Own her.
But she ran.
For a decade, I searched. Hunted. Ripped apart the shadows she hid in.
And now—
Now she's in my bed.
She stirs, breath catching in her throat, her small body shifting against the silk sheets. The bruises on her skin have deepened overnight—shades of my vengeance.
I sit in the chair by the window, watching. Waiting.
She doesn't know I'm here yet.
The moment her eyes open, she will.
A soft, pained whimper escapes her lips. Then a slow inhale. Then—
Her lashes flutter.
She wakes up wrong.
For a moment, she doesn't understand. Her breathing is too slow, too calm. Then her gaze lands on the ceiling. Then the walls. Then the expensive furniture surrounding her.
Confusion.
Her brows knit together.
Then—
Fear.
It washes over her in waves. Her eyes widen, her hands clenching the sheets. Her breath quickens, chest rising and falling in sharp little gasps.
And then, she finally sees me.
She freezes.
I don't move.
I let her terror settle, let it slither through her veins like venom.
"You're awake," I murmur.
A flinch. Barely noticeable.
Her lips part, but no words come out.
I push up from the chair, slow, deliberate. Letting her watch.
She tenses as I step closer. Every muscle in her tiny body is wound tight, trembling like a rabbit caught in a trap.
She should be scared.
But I don't touch her. Not yet.
"You slept well," I say smoothly, watching her throat bob as she swallows. "That's good."
Silence.
She's waiting for me to hurt her.
I won't.
Not yet.
She needs to understand first.
"You can move around the house," I tell her. "But not outside. The gates won't open for you. No one will help you."
A flicker of something in her wide, terrified eyes.
"Why…" Her voice is hoarse. Weak. "Why are you—"
She doesn't finish.
She doesn't need to.
I already know what she wants to ask.
Why am I doing this?
Why her?
I won't tell her. Not yet.
Because when the truth comes, it won't be with words.
It will be with ruin.
I tilt my head, studying her.
"Go ahead," I murmur. "Run if you want. Scream. Try to hide."
I lean in, watching her shudder as my breath ghosts over her ear.
"It won't matter."
Her pulse is a wild, frantic thing against her skin.
I could grab her now. Crush her under the weight of what she did to me.
But I won't.