The air smells of fresh cotton, cashmere, and cedar hangers, an aroma of soft luxury that lulls the senses—until a familiar musk drifts in, overpowering everything. A smile spreads across my lips as I turn, eyes locking on Dante.
He holds a dress in his hands, and it is nothing short of a masterpiece. A soft blush pink blooms across the fabric, a sheer nude base adorned with tiny, intricate rhinestones scattered like constellations.
“You think that would fit me?”
A smirk curves his lips, sharp and predatory, and his eyes flare with something deliciously dangerous. My mouth goes dry, and I have to swallow, a conscious effort against the sinfulness radiating from him.
“Yes. It will match your hair and eyes perfectly,” he replies evenly.
I study him for a long beat, challenge sparkling in my gaze. His hand finds mine, guiding me toward the fitting room. I bite back a giggle that threatens to escape, the thrill of anticipation mingling with the heat of him beside me.
I’ve never felt like this. Every moment with Dante is like being high on the most potent drug I’ve ever known—one that spreads through my veins, clouding my mind in the most exquisite way. I feel light with him, untethered, like the impossible suddenly becomes possible.
Like, no matter how battered or broken I am, I can come back to him at the end of the day, and he will understand. He will tend to me, wipe the blood from my wounds, and stitch me back together.
We move toward the fitting room, and Dante steps aside, letting me go in first. I glide inside, eyes locking onto the giant mirror that dominates the wall, reflecting both of us. He follows, his hand gently gripping the curtain, pulling it closed with deliberate slowness.
I study the dress, taking a moment to analyze every fold, every glimmer, wondering how it will contour to my body.
Dante’s hand finds my shoulders, steady and warm, and he slowly slides my flower bomber jacket down. A shiver snakes down my spine, goosebumps rising like a tide across my skin, as his fingers brush against the buttons of my silk shirt.
He remains silent, and that silence sharpens every nerve ending. I don’t know what he intends, but the uncertainty ignites a light, buzzing heat under my skin.
I let him help remove the rest of my clothes, and a rush of awareness strikes me as the breeze skims over my bare skin.
I am exposed, completely, under his ravenous gaze.
Deliberately, he drags his tongue across his lips, and I suck in a sharp breath. One hand slides behind me, unclipping my bra, and my mouth falls open as the fabric slips free, letting my breasts bounce naturally.
“You don’t need a bra with this dress,” he murmurs, his voice taut and low, like a string pulled tight.
Before my mind can fully process it, he kneels. My eyebrows shoot up as a folded piece of fabric emerges from his pocket. He unfolds it, one hand brushing my leg softly, sending a ripple of pleasure through me. Air is stolen from my lungs, my energy siphoned by his simple touch as I close my eyes.
It will end me someday, I know it.
I lift my leg slightly, and he guides the white lace strap to my upper thigh. A question rises in my mind, but before I can voice it, he retrieves a small knife from his pocket, tucking it carefully into the strap. Every movement leaves me raw,exposed, tethered to him in a way that terrifies and enthralls me all at once.
His touch feels electric, like a live wire skimming across my skin, and my leg twitches at the brush of his fingertips. Then—just as suddenly as it came—the warmth disappears. The absence strikes me like a blow—a cold, hollow ache rushing through me so fast it leaves me unsteady.
“Yours is a bit overused, don’t you think?” he murmurs as he gets up and moves a hand to my face. His fingers tuck a fallen golden strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that contradicts the fire in his eyes.
He leans closer, and his scent rises around me, fresh and intoxicating. It slips into my lungs, fogging my thoughts, pulling me deeper into his gravity. His other hand drops to the knife in my lace strap, tapping the hilt lightly.
“I want to look at it,” I whisper, the words barely forming through the haze he drapes over me.
He studies me for a long moment before sliding the knife from the strap and lifting it to my eye level. I tilt my head, drinking it in. A black knife, its blade sleek and sharp, with a flush of pastel pink cutting through the center of the handle. The steel catches the lamp’s bright light, scattering it across our reflections.
Liquid heat unfurls in my lower stomach as the truth sinks in. He bought this for me. He simply saw the state of my old blade and decided I deserved better.
Dante must sense the storm inside me, because he moves the tip of the knife to my lips, his breath skimming my cheek as he whispers, “Youdeservenice things, Estella.”
Slowly, he drags the blade lower, and I tilt my chin, offering myself to the moment. The sharp tip kisses my skin, slicing through it, a thin line of fire blooming across my mouth.
His gaze snaps to the cut the moment blood rises. He leans in with aching precision, catching the first drop with his mouth before it can fall. His tongue traces the line of blood to the corner of my lip, and I gasp, pressing closer. My nipples skim the fabric of his shirt, tightening at the friction, and a low moan rumbles from his chest.
He takes my lower lip into his mouth, sucking the blood from it with hungry tenderness, and I arch into him, offering more without a second thought.
Dante pulls back for a heartbeat, the bloody tip of the blade brushing against his lips before he drags it across his skin, smearing my blood like paint, and then presses his mouth to mine. The taste is coppery, sharp, and so fucking intoxicating, mingling with the faintly sweet remnants of ice cream on my tongue as we drink from each other like predators.
