Then Dmitri’s voice cut through it, calm and glacial.
“You realize,” he said evenly, “that I will never marry you. Not after these three months. Not ever.”
Seraphina stiffened.
“If I have to,” he continued, eyes hard as stone, “I’ll start a war first.”
The words landed like a loaded gun placed gently on the table.
“That much is clear,” Seraphina replied coolly, her tone like ice sliding over steel. “All of Lake Como is buzzing. My father’s already preparing.”
Dmitri leaned forward, voice low, dangerous in its quiet. “Then end it. Tell him you’re no longer interested. Marry someone else. This war... it starts because of you.”
Seraphina’s spoon clattered against her bowl, but she didn’t flinch. When she finally lifted her gaze, her eyes burned like coals, unrelenting. “You forget,” she said softly at first, then louder, sharper. “I’ve loved you my entire life. I’d rather die than watch you with another woman. Yes, I seem desperate. Pathetic. A villain. But love does that. So go ahead—start your war. Let blood run in the streets. Let Lake Como burn. I don’t care. If I can’t have you, no one should.”
Dmitri’s chair scraped back as he rose, the movement precise, a predator slowly closing in. His dark eyes pinned her in place. “Leave this table,” he commanded, voice lethal, the kind that didn’t invite argument.
Her lips parted, trembling slightly, and she shot back, venom lacing every word. “Why? Because you’ll never stop hating me? Because I’ll never measure up to your perfect dead wife? Because I won’t fake cosmetic surgery to look like her?” She jabbed a finger subtly in my direction, and then her glare snapped back to him. “Because I’m being honest—who I truly am?”
“None of that matters,” Dmitri said evenly, every syllable coated in steel. “I want this moment with my wife. Alone. Without a forced intruder poisoning the air.”
For a heartbeat, Seraphina froze.
Then her chin lifted, her gaze sharp, eyes glittering with a storm of hurt and defiance. “Maybe you should push me away yourself,” she said, voice trembling but resolute. “Because I’m not leaving this table.”
Dmitri’s fists clenched, veins corded along his forearms as he took a menacing step toward her. I could feel the heat emanating from him, the kind of rage that could snap steel. This was the Dmitri I knew—the man who could make rooms quiet with a single glance, who could kill without hesitation.
And I knew Seraphina. She thrived on chaos, and this was a trap. One misstep, one burst of violence, and she’d spin it into proof of cruelty, a weapon for her father to unleash against Dmitri. She wanted the drama; she wanted leverage.
I moved before he could take another step, pressing my hands firmly against his chest. My palms were warm, but my grip was steady. “Dmitri,” I said softly, but with an urgent edge, “stop.”
For a heartbeat, his storm-gray eyes locked onto mine, fury coiled like a drawn bow. Then, somewhere between his temper and my insistence, reason flickered. He paused.
I forced a smile, teasing, light, as if none of this mattered. “Perhaps we should give Miss Seraphina exactly what she wants,” I murmured, loud enough for her to hear. “A show.”
Before he could question me, I took his hand—calloused, warm, familiar—and led him around the long dining table. The chandelier above cast a soft, golden light, the polished wood gleaming like a stage.
Seraphina’s gaze followed us, sharp and calculating, every muscle in her body taut with anticipation.
I stopped in front of him, my hands rising to cup his face. His stubble grazed my palms, grounding me in a way nothing else could. I rose onto my toes and pressed my lips to his.
The first touch was tentative, almost reverent, a gentle brush of mouths testing, remembering. For a heartbeat, he remained still, surprised, as if trying to place the weight of five years of absence in that single contact. Then his hands curved possessively around my waist, pulling me closer.
What had begun as soft and exploratory ignited like wildfire. The kiss deepened—hungry, demanding. His tongue brushed against mine, claiming, tasting, asserting. I melted into him, fingers threading through his thick hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Heat surged between us, years of longing and denial crashing together in one devastating wave.
His hands roamed my back, gripping, lifting slightly, and I arched against him instinctively. Mine were no less desperate, tugging at his shirt, ripping buttons free. Fabric tore under our fervor, falling to the floor. He shrugged it off, chest bare beneath my palms, scars and muscle familiar even after all this time.
The room blurred around us—the glittering chandeliers, the polished silverware, the lingering scent of pasta and wine.
Seraphina sat frozen, expression oscillating between shock and fury, powerless in the face of the undeniable bond we shared.
I pulled back just enough to look into Dmitri’s eyes, our breaths mingling, chests rising and falling in tandem. “Do you feel it?” I whispered against his lips.
His gaze darkened, desire and something unspoken—ownership, protection, and the weight of everything we’d lost—flickering there. “Every second I’ve waited,” he murmured, voice low, harsh, “I’ve burned for this moment.”
He backed me against the table’s edge, lips trailing fire down my neck as his fingers worked the zipper of my dress.
The fabric pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but lace underwear.
