His cock strains underneath me, and he lifts me by the hips and takes a few steps. I lean back in his hold, but he’s quick to grab me by the cheeks to redirect my attention back to him.
“Borris has already left the room. I left a treat for him downstairs. He’ll be gone for a while,” he growls, and I throw my head back and laugh at the fact that he knew exactly what I was looking away for. And, of course, he thought ahead, planning for just this scenario.
Dante awkwardly tries to step over something and curses. We both look down to where he’s stepped on one of my paint palettes, fresh paint now covering his bare foot. I keep laughing.
“You think that’s funny?” he asks, pressing kisses around my face. He lowers me onto my back, and I gasp as his fingers swipe across my cheeks.
“Noooo!” I cry as I realize he’s smeared paint all over my face. His hand then goes to my stomach, rolling up my shirt. “You did not, Dante Moretti,” I say as I fist the paint and bring it to his bare chest. A guttural growl escapes him as he shoves my shorts down, and I aggressively attack his pants. We’re naked in the span of seconds, paint all over us, laughing.
I accidentally graze my nails down his injured arm, and he hisses.
“Oh fuck, I’m so—” The apology dies on my lips when I look into his eyes, which have darkened.
“Don’t apologize,Cattivella. I like it. Whatever pain you’re willing to inflict, I’ll happily accept,” he says, lining his cock up with my pussy. A warmth floods my core. The more I let him in,the more he’s willing to share his depravities with me. It should terrify me, but it doesn’t.
He slams into me, and I hitch backward, trying to accommodate his size. How does only a few days without his touch feel like a lifetime? My nails dig into his flesh as he takes me for all I’m worth, impaling me like a madman, and slapping noises echo throughout the room.
Another shift happens inside me as I decide to let him fully into my heart—finally accepting the truth that lies between us. I cling to him for my salvation, knowing that if I let him in, there’s no coming back from it.
Only in death will we be separated, because that’s how tight the stranglehold Dante Moretti has on my soul is.
And from now on, I’m not willing to walk away from it.
34
DANTE
I’m holding her as she quietly snores against my chest in her bed, her bedroom is a disaster once again. It was only two days ago that I cleaned it, and for someone who barely leaves the house and is wearing the same shit while painting, I don’t know how so many clothes end up on the floor.
My eye twitches at the empty snack wrappers that have clearly missed the trash can. I don't know why she's eating such junk when I made sure she had plenty of pre-made meals. But at least she’s eating. I push back a lock of her black hair. Some of her natural red is starting to show at the roots, and I wonder what it would look like if she were to grow it back out. Not that it matters what color her hair is—she’ll always be beautiful to me. However, I feel like this black-haired edge to her is here to stay for a while.
Her phone vibrates, and I can’t help but be curious, so I lean over to check it. I’m still not a good man, and that will never change.
It’s a text message from Sienna, checking up on her. I use her Face ID to unlock the phone and notice that most of her responses are short and somewhat vague, when she bothers torespond at all. Yet I know how deeply Romi cares for her friends. All this time she’s been pushing them away, and I wonder if she’s scared that they’ll leave her just as Lorraine did. Or maybe she didn’t want them to get too close while she was self-destructing. I reply, suggesting Sienna come over for the day.
I know Romi is focusing on her art, and she’ll be pissed when she realizes I was the one who added the gentle nudge, but she needs her friends right now, even if she struggles to ask them for help. She needs to be reminded that she’s not alone, even though she’s done everything up until this point to isolate herself.
As I scan back through the texts, it becomes painstakingly obvious that I haven’t come up in discussion once. That just tears at my ego.
I scroll through her contacts and delete every male name I find. I then pause, contemplating deleting every woman’s number as well since Romi appreciates both genders.
Instead, I do the next best thing to stake my claim. I go into her Instagram and then angle the camera so my bandage isn’t visible. Then I put on my best shit-eating grin, forming that perfect dimple. And despite how tired I am and my disheveled state, I look fucking perfect. And so does she, sleeping soundly in my arms.
I shift the angle a little more so no one can actually see her sleeping face. That’s only for me to see. I take the photo, upload it with the captionSoft launch, and then post it. I then make her follow my account back, considering I only created a profile so I could follow her.
She's going to rage at me for this, and I can’t wait. Not only am I marking my territory, but I’m also hoping it brings Romi back to living in her world. I don’t care for social media, but it’s important to her career.
The circulation about her assaulting her friend's mother has died down, and that’s most likely from Romi’s parents'influence. This will give her fans something else to focus on. At least that’s how I justify it in my head. I’m just a selfish bastard letting the world know she's mine.
I steal a few more minutes of bliss, scratching Borris under the chin, before sliding out of bed and getting ready for work. Andrei has put up a good fight, but he’s slowly leaking the information we need.
I only wanted to come back for a few hours to check on her, and my time here is now up.
“Her name's Frances Twin,”Izak says when I return to Balmere. Andrei is clinging to life by a thread. Despite his current circumstances, he’s stubbornly tight-lipped. But when we discuss his sister in front of him, he starts playing a different tune. It’s not uncommon for those in this situation to fight for the ones they love, and I’ll use any means necessary to get what I want.
Izak offers me the file on the sister. The two hardly resemble one another. She’s a kindergarten teacher, and looks as if she lives an ordinary life with a monotonous routine.
“Sh-she has n-nothing to do with this,” Andrei stammers, barely conscious. “I d-don’t even know my s-sister, you… dumbasses,” he forces out from the chair he’s now chained to.
