"I should."
"You don't."
Her pulse was hammering against my thumb where I held her wrist. I could feel every ragged breath she took, could smell the hotel shampoo in her hair and something underneath it that was justher. Clean skin. Defiance. Something sweet and dangerous that made my control fray like rope over broken glass.
"Dante—"
Hearing my name on her lips snapped the last thread.
I released her wrist and cupped her face instead, tilting her head back until those whiskey eyes were locked on mine. Her lips parted. Her hands came up to my chest—whether to push me away or pull me closer, neither of us knew.
"You drive me insane," I whispered against her cheek, my lips barely touching skin. "Every thought. Every plan. Every calculated move I've made for fifteen years, and you walk into a ballroom in an emerald dress and burn it all down."
"I didn't ask for this—"
"Neither did I."
I traced a path with my mouth from her cheekbone to her jaw, feeling her shiver beneath my hands. Not fear. Something else. Something that matched the fire clawing through my chest.
"Tell me to stop," I murmured against the hollow of her throat, my lips ghosting over her pulse point. "Tell me you hate this. Tell me you'd rather be back in that compound with your father's guards and Miguel's ring on your finger."
"I—" Her words dissolved into a sharp inhale as I grazed my teeth over the sensitive skin below her ear.
"Tell me, Julietta."
"I can't."
The admission broke something open between us. Her hands fisted in my shirt, and when I pulled back just enough to look at her, I saw the same hunger I felt reflected in her eyes. The same confusion. The same terrifying recognition thatthis—whatever this was—had been inevitable from the moment I'd seen her across that ballroom.
"You should hate me," I said.
"I know."
"I killed your fiancé."
"I know that too."
"I'm keeping you prisoner."
"Are you?" Her fingers relaxed against my chest, spreading over my heart. "Or are you keeping me safe?"
The question hit harder than any accusation could have. Because she was right. Because underneath the obsession and possession and hunger, there was something else. Something I couldn't name and didn't want to examine.
I slid one hand into her hair, the damp strands tangling around my fingers like silk. Her eyes fluttered closed for just a second before snapping open again, obstinate even in surrender.
"What are you doing to me?" she whispered.
"Same thing you're doing to me."
Our mouths were inches apart. One movement. One moment of weakness. One kiss and this whole carefully constructed arrangement would detonate.
I wanted it.
God help me, I wanted it more than I'd wanted anything in my entire blood-soaked life.
But not like this. Not when she was still wearing the dress with Miguel's blood on it in her mind. Not when she was trapped here with nowhere to go and no choice but me.
I pulled back.
