Instead, they settled into my bones like something that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.
I looked at him—this man who'd kidnapped me, held me captive, admitted his obsession like it was a weakness. This man who'd also killed my fiancé. Extracted me from a hotel. Positioned himself between me and a grave.
"Why tell me now?"
He didn't answer immediately. His hand rose again, and this time he cupped the side of my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with the kind of care that seemed impossible coming from someone who'd just threatened to burn cities.
"Because," he said, and his breath was close enough that I could feel it against my skin, "I need you to understand that the choice you make next matters. Not for leverage. Not for strategy. For me."
He leaned in. Close enough that his lips almost brushed mine. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"When I kiss you," he whispered, "and I will, it needs to be because you want it. Not because you're afraid. Not because you're confused. Not because you think it's the only way to survive."
His forehead nearly touched mine.
"It needs to be because you choose me."
The penthouse seemed to hold its breath. The city below continued its endless motion, indifferent to the fact that I was standing at the edge of something I couldn't name. Something that felt like drowning and flying simultaneously.
My heart thundered against my ribs.
"And if I don't?" The question came out barely audible.
His eyes searched mine. Jaw tight. Hands steady even though I could feel the tension vibrating through him.
"Then we find another way," he said. But his voice sounded like a man making a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.
CHAPTER 9
Dante
The silence that followed my words stretched between us like something alive. I watched her process it—the slight widening of her pupils, the way her breath caught, the flush that crept up her neck.
"If I don't choose you," she said slowly, "you'll just let me walk."
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Because we both knew it was a lie.
She took a step closer instead of away. My entire body went rigid.
"You're lying," she whispered.
"Yes."
The honesty seemed to knock something loose in her. Her eyes glistened, but she didn't look away. Didn't flinch. Just stood there in front of me like she was trying to memorize the shape of my face, the exact shade of my eyes, the particular way my chest rose and fell under the weight of what I felt for her.
"Why me?" The question came out broken. Desperate in a way that suggested she'd been carrying it for days, maybe longer.
I stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the rapid pulse at her throat. Close enough that the scent of her—something like jasmine and whatever soap she'd used in the shower—filled my lungs.
"Because you're mine," I said.
No softening it. No dressing it up in pretty language or strategic reasoning. Just the truth, raw and possessive and undeniable.
She stared at me like I'd said something impossible. Like I'd reached into her chest and claimed something that had always belonged to me.
Her hands trembled. I watched her fingers curl into fists at her sides, watched her jaw clench like she was fighting something inside herself. The war between what her mind was telling her and what her body wanted was written across her face in real time.
"You can't just—" she started.
