"Probably." I turned to face him. His eyes were furious and desperate, something raw underneath. "But at least it'll be my death. My choice. My life."
"Not acceptable."
"It's the only offer on the table."
We stared at each other across the six feet of space between us. I could see the war happening in his body—the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists, the rapid calculation happening behind those eyes. He was running scenarios, I realized. Playing out every version of this conversation in his head, looking for the angle that would make me comply.
There wasn't one. He'd built me wrong if compliance was the goal.
"You work with Marcos," he said finally. His voice was steady but thin, like it was being forced through a narrow space. "Every move. Every plan. Every breath you take outside this compound, he knows about it. And if I tell you to stand down, you stand down. Those are my conditions."
"They're not—"
"Those are my conditions," he repeated, harder, "or you go to the lower levels and you stay there. Choose."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that conditions meant control, that he was still caging me, just with more options. But I also knew he was terrified. Actual, visceral terror underneath the authority and the absolute certainty. He was trying to keep me alive the only way he knew how.
And I was asking him to let me walk into danger.
"Fine. Marcos knows. I comply with tactical stands." I met his gaze. "But I work. I plan. I hunt. Or you watch me disappear from this compound the moment your back is turned, and then Corsica finds me anyway, and you never see me again."
His expression shifted. Just a fraction. But enough that I knew I'd found the leverage point.
"You wouldn't—"
"I would. Without hesitation. I've learned from the best." I kept my voice soft, which made it worse. "And you know it."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he turned away, toward the window, and I saw his shoulders rise and fall with a breath that came from somewhere deep.
"You're going to destroy me," he said quietly.
"Probably," I agreed. "But not tonight."
I didn't go to my room immediately.
Instead, I went to the study where Dante had shown me the Medusa painting, and I sat in the dark with just the city lights filtering through the windows. My hands were shaking. My heart was still hammering against my ribs. My entire body was vibrating with adrenaline and anger and the strange, intoxicating sensation of having said no and having it actually matter.
I'd said no to the Bennetts. They'd packed my things and shipped me to the compound.
I'd said no to Lorenzo. He'd smiled and arranged my marriage anyway.
But I'd said no to Dante, and he'd actually listened. Actually stopped. Actually changed course because I refused to move.
The difference gutted me.
It meant something was different. I was different. Or maybe he was different. Or maybe we were just differenttogetherin a way that made the old rules stop applying.
Footsteps in the hallway. I tensed, then relaxed when I recognized the rhythm. Dante.
He opened the study door and found me in the darkness. For a moment, he just stood there, silhouetted against the light from the hallway.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I'm not."
"I know." He came deeper into the room, and I could see his face now, exhausted and older than it had looked at dinner. "That's part of the problem. You're not sorry. You're not afraid. You're just...moving forward. And I can't—" He stopped, struggling with something. "I can't be the person who holds you back."
"Then don't." I stood up. "Work with me instead of against me. Let me help stop him."
