And now this.
He held her gaze long enough to let the silence carry weight.
She didn't look away.
She meant it.
All of it.
Irritation flickered.
Because he was going to yield.
And she had known he would before he did.
Definitely a problem.
He inclined his head. Once. Deliberate.
"As you wish."
Binding.
She understood it as one.
Her shoulders eased a fraction. Not relief. Recognition.
Good.
April
HIS VOICE DROPPED half an octave on the last word, and April's pulse kicked hard enough to make her breath catch. The way he was looking at her—patient, predatory, utterly certain—made her skin feel too tight. She was suddenly, acutely aware of the space between them. Of the fact that she was wet, had been getting wetter with every back-and-forth of this negotiation, and he probably knew it.
“You have my word. When I give it, it binds.” Dante leaned forward. “Do you understand the weight of that?”
April's lips parted. Surprised, and then amused, and then very aware that she liked how it sounded coming from him.
“There are seven men waiting for me.”
Dante pulled back. "I don't share."
"Then you're in the wrong genre."
Don Dante
"I DON'T SHARE." Immediate reflex.
He did not divide territory. He did not split claim. When he took something, he took it completely.
That was how authority held.
"Then you're in the wrong genre."
Genre.
The word stopped him.
Dante's jaw involuntary tightened. He did not operate in genres.
