The cut isn’t deep. It’ll heal quickly. But the moment I look at it, that old, violent heat flickers back to life inside me—rage climbing my spine, scorching through every nerve like a warning I’ll never ignore again.
“The snake faucet,” she says.
I step beside her, leaning over the counter. A bowl of ruffled, steaming fries sits there like an offering, a small cup of ketchup tucked beside it on a wooden board. The warm scent strikes me, and a smile curls onto my lips.
“Yes,” I say, inhaling the familiar comfort of fast food. “Very elegant. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that.”
She turns to look up at me, a small, soft smile blooming across her face. “I know you haven’t,” she replies, pride threading into her voice.
She shifts back toward the fries, adjusting the bowl, her head tilting just enough for a few honey-colored strands to fall over her cheek and block my view. Instinct moves faster than thought; I reach out and gently tuck them behind her ear.
She goes still at the contact, eyes snapping up to mine. For a beat, I simply stare at her—soaking in her beauty, the quiet, the breath between storms.
Estella lifts a brow. “See something you like?” she teases.
“Yes,” I admit. “Yes, I do.”
Her tongue flicks out, quick and instinctive, gliding over her lips, and just like that, whatever control I had left snaps. Something unseen grabs hold of me, a force that shoves me backward a half step before pulling me forward again, dragging me out of my spot like gravity has chosen her as its center. Estella straightens slowly, eyes locked on mine as I close the distance between us.
A hard swallow drops down my throat. “Can I kiss you?”
Surprise ripples across her face. The corners of her eyes round, her brows shooting so high they nearly touch her hairline. A small laugh slips out—sharp at first, then melting into a fuller one as she grins, her teeth flashing, her eyes crinkling with amusement.
“Dante, you just had your?—”
I don’t let her finish. I don’t even let the sentence breathe. I crash my mouth against hers, threading my fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head to anchor her to me.
She freezes for a heartbeat, her palms pressed flat against my chest, and for a split second I can’t tell if she’s about to push me away or drag me in.
But then, her lips ignite against mine, sealing over them with a heat that shoots through my entire body. Everything between us detonates. She fists the collar of my blood-stained T-shirt and yanks me closer, pulling me into her like she’s starving.
The kiss isn’t tender. It could never be. It’s fire and ruin, sparks and ashes, something scorching that leaves my tongue tingling with an aftertaste of smoke.
Her muffled moan vibrates through our locked mouths as we tear into each other. My tongue forces its way past her lips, prying them open, and she yields instantly, letting me in, meeting me with equal hunger. My other hand slides to her waist, gripping it hard, my fingertips digging into the silk,promising marks she’ll feel later. I tangle my tongue with hers, rolling, twisting, chasing every shiver she gives me.
She pulls back for air, our mouths parting with a sharp, wet smack. Her hands glide up to my neck, settling on both sides, her fingers warm against my skin as she pulls me in again—bringing our faces level, our breaths colliding, neither of us ready to stop.
Gently, I rest my forehead against hers, catching the rush of her breath as it spills out and merges with the wild rhythm of her heartbeat.
“No way our first kiss just happened in a goddamn kitchen beside ruffled fries,” she whispers, breathless and dazed.
A rough laugh rumbles through my chest. My hands slide to her ass and, in one fluid motion, I lift her. Her legs wrap around my waist, clinging to me as I carry her toward her bedroom, toward the wide windows that drink in all the moonlight.
Estella presses herself closer as I move, her palms framing my face, her lips brushing soft, frantic kisses over mine—small, desperate smooches like she’ll shatter if she doesn’t feel my mouth on hers.
I set her gently on the windowsill, letting the silver glow wash over her. Pulling back, I take a moment to admire her again.
She looks timeless.
A death-born angel gleaming in shadow, a siren carved of night, pulling a mortal man straight into myth.
My gaze drifts to her lips, the sheen of my saliva catching the light like scattered glitter in the blackness.
“You’re fucking exquisite,” I murmur. A smile curves across her mouth, and just like that, I’m ready to sell whatever remains of my soul and crawl through every circle of hell if it means earning even one of those smiles a day.
Her mouth moves toward mine, magnetized, inevitable. I drag her closer, wanting—needing—to fuse her into me, to moldher shape into my own. She already feels like a piece of me, but it still isn’t enough.
It will never be enough.
