The air around us stiffened, coiled like a predator in waiting. I shifted my weight, unsure whether to speak or scream. But Zagreus didn’t blink or breathe. His eyes did the talking.
His gaze held me hostage in ways the gilded mansion never could.
There was no kindness in that stare. Just possession and certainty. That unbearable intimacy of a man memorised everyinch of my weakness, and was now quietly daring me to try and run.
I turned slightly, as if to walk away. As if to escape that unbearable stillness burning through my skin.
But I felt it.
That slow step forward. That low hum of power. Several thunderbolts ran down my spine as his two fingers traced the edge of my wrist with such devastating gentleness, as if I were made of silk he didn’t yet deserve to tear.
“You tremble,” he murmured, voice dipped in warmth that should’ve been outlawed.
I didn’t reply. I didn’t trust my voice. My throat had sealed itself in shame and something far more dangerous… its desire.
His hand slid up my arm, leaving behind heat and holy dread. Stopping at the crook of my elbow, where the pulse betrayed me the loudest.
“Stay with me.”
My heart thudded.
“I didn’t run,” I whispered.
He leaned in, forehead almost brushing mine. ‘But you want to.”
My silence was confirmation enough.
“Then don’t,” he said. “Don’t run. Don’t try. Don’t even think of leaving me, Dolcezza.”
“And if I say no?” I asked, chin tilting in defiance that barely masked my shiver.
A long pause, then a cruel, slow smile graced his lips. “Then I’ll have to make you say yes.”
My breath caught.
“But,” he added, tone light as velvet yet tight like rope, “if you promise not to run, I’ll let you paint again… I’ll reward you.”
My eyes snapped to him. “With what?”
“Anything.”
He released me then. Wiped his hands and chest with a linen towel. Methodically and unhurried, as if time bent to his will.
I watched as he lifted the gun he had been cleaning earlier and held it toward me.
“Do you know how to use it?”
I blinked. The steel looked colder than the sea.
“No,” I whispered, throat dry, fingers curling slightly.
He stepped behind me, heat radiating off his body, licking at my frozen skin. His palm found my waist, and the breath knocked out of me as he pulled me back against his chest.
“You’ll learn,” he murmured.
I shuddered.
His hands wrapped around mine, positioning my fingers along the barrel, the stock, the trigger. Every touch was a symphony of restraint, instructive but laced with obscenity.
