VOWS OF FIRE AND BLOOD

The private club reeked of power and money. Gilded chandeliers glowed above velvet booths, where men in tailored suits whispered about deals that could topple governments. My father's hand was iron around my wrist as he pulled me deeper inside, past guards who didn't bother pretending not to stare.

I already knew who waited for me.

Dante Moretti.

The man they called Il Lupo : The Wolf.

He was leaning casually against the bar when I saw him, a dark suit cut to perfection around a body that radiated effortless command. A glass of whiskey dangled from one hand.

My father nudged me forward. "Isabella. Meet your fiancé."

I froze. My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out the murmur of conversations, the clinking of crystal.

Dante's gaze lifted, and the world tilted. Gray eyes, sharp as a blade, locked on mine. He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just let his eyes drag down the length of me in a slow, searing appraisal that set my skin aflame and my stomach in knots.

"Princess Romano," he drawled at last, his voice deep velvet laced with steel. "You kept me waiting."

My chin snapped up. "I wasn't aware I owed you my time."

A flicker of amusement touched his mouth. Dangerous, lethal amusement. He set his glass down, straightened, and closed the distance between us with a predator's ease. His scent, expensive cologne, smoke, and something darker wrapped around me.

"Everything you are," he said softly, so only I could hear, "already belongs to me."

The words shouldn't have made my heart stumble. They shouldn't have curled heat low in my belly. But the way he said them like a vow, like a promise carved into stone stole my breath.

I forced my glare to steady. "You don't own me, Moretti."

His smile widened, all wolf, no warmth. "Not yet."

Dante gestured smoothly to a secluded booth tucked into the shadows. His men, sharp-eyed and silent, stood at discreet distance as if the outcome of this meeting was already written.

I slid into the booth stiffly, folding my arms across my chest. Dante sat opposite, his movements unhurried, every line of him radiating control.

A server appeared instantly with another whiskey for him, a glass of wine for me. I hadn't ordered it.

"You'll like it," Dante murmured, watching as I eyed the drink. "French, older than you. Sweet, with a sharp bite at the end. Much like its new owner."

"I didn't agree to anything," I said, my voice clipped.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, the lamplight catching in his eyes like cold fire. "Your father signed. The oath is sealed. In three days, Isabella, you will stand beside me as my wife."

The word wife struck like a lash. I tried to mask the jolt it sent through me with disdain. "You think you can buy loyalty with a ring?"

"No." His gaze dropped, lingering deliberately on my mouth, then lower. "I'll take it."

Heat surged through me, rage, fury, and something else I refused to name. I shifted back against the velvet seat, but his eyes held me pinned in place more effectively than chains.

"You mistake fear for desire," I snapped.

Dante's smile was slow, dangerous. "Do I?"

He reached across the table, fingers brushing the inside of my wrist before I could pull away. His touch was fire against my skin, light, claiming, and impossible to ignore. I hated the way my pulse leapt beneath his thumb.

"You're trembling," he said softly.

I yanked my hand back. "With disgust."

He chuckled, low and intimate, like we were already lovers sharing a private joke. "Keep lying, princess. I'll enjoy watching you unravel."

I opened my mouth to retort, but he silenced me with a glance that made my throat dry. Dante Moretti didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His power was in the quiet certainty that no one ever told him no.

And God help me, some traitorous part of me wanted to test how far I could push him.

Dante rose smoothly from the booth, finishing his whiskey in a single swallow. He extended a hand toward me, palm up, commanding rather than offering.

"Dance with me."

"I don't dance," I shot back instantly.

His eyebrow arched. "Then tonight, you'll learn."

I didn't move. Around us, the hum of the club carried on, but I could feel eyes turning, attention shifting toward the spectacle Dante Moretti was orchestrating. Refusing him here, in his kingdom, would be a declaration of war. And I'd been raised to know how those ended.

Grinding my teeth, I placed my hand in his. His grip closed over mine, strong and possessive, sending a pulse through me I despised myself for feeling.

He led me to the center of the floor where space opened like the sea before a king. Music swelled, low, sultry, violins woven with a beat that made my heart race.

His arm slid around my waist, drawing me flush against him. The contact stole my breath. Heat radiated from his body, his chest a solid wall beneath my palm. He held me as if we had been molded for this moment, as if resistance was laughable.

"Relax," he murmured, guiding me into the rhythm with effortless control. "You're safe in my arms."

"Safe?" I scoffed, glaring up at him. "You're the last man on earth I'd trust."

"Not trust," he corrected smoothly, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Surrender."

The word lodged in my throat, heavy, dangerous. I hated him for the way my body responded before my mind could catch up. Each step pressed us closer, each turn wound me tighter around him.

I tried to create space, but Dante only drew me nearer, his hand at the small of my back inching lower, firm and deliberate. I gasped softly, and his mouth curved in a wolf's smile.

"You feel it too," he whispered, his breath warm against my temple. "The fire."

My pulse thundered. "What I feel is disgust."

"Disgust doesn't make you tremble like this." His voice dropped, intimate and lethal. "You'll burn for me, Isabella. And when you do, you'll beg me not to stop."

The music swelled, spinning us through the center of the floor. Applause broke out around us, though I barely heard it. All I could register was the steel of his arm, the searing heat of his body, and the terrifying truth that he might be right.

When the song ended, Dante didn't release me immediately. He kept me close, his thumb brushing deliberately along the edge of my lower back, a touch meant only for me. His lips hovered so close I thought he'd kiss me.

Instead, he whispered, "Three days, wife. Prepare yourself."

Then he let me go, leaving me breathless, furious, and shaken to my very core.

The moment Dante released me, I bolted from the dance floor, my pulse still erratic. Applause faded into a dull roar as I slipped past the crowd, desperate for air, for distance, for anything that wasn't him.

But wolves never let their prey run far.

A strong hand caught my arm, pulling me into the shadows of a marble column near the edge of the room. My back hit the cold stone, and Dante's body caged mine instantly, his presence overwhelming, blocking out everything but him.

"Running already?" His voice was low, dangerous, threaded with amusement. "We haven't even started."

I pushed at his chest, but it was like trying to move a wall of steel. He didn't budge. His hand braced against the column beside my head, the other capturing my wrist and pressing it to the stone above me. Trapped.

"Let me go," I hissed.

"Not a chance." His gaze roamed my face with infuriating slowness, lingering on my parted lips, the rapid rise and fall of my chest. "Do you know what I see when I look at you, Isabella?"

I glared up at him, defiant. "A woman who despises you."

Dante's smile was wicked, unhurried. "A woman who's already mine."

Heat flooded me, anger, shame, something perilously close to desire. My breath hitched when he leaned closer, his nose brushing mine, his lips hovering a breath away.

"Say it," he whispered. "Say you feel nothing."

I opened my mouth, but the words caught. My heart betrayed me, hammering against my ribs, and he felt it...of course he did. His smirk deepened, triumphant.

"You can lie to yourself, princess," he murmured, his lips grazing the corner of my mouth without fully claiming it. "But your body will never lie to me."

Rage surged, breaking through the haze. I shoved him hard with my free hand, enough to startle him back an inch. My voice shook, but I forced it out: "I will never belong to you."

For a heartbeat, silence crackled between us. Then Dante chuckled, dark and satisfied, as though my resistance was exactly what he wanted.

He released me, stepping back with infuriating calm. Adjusting his cufflinks, he leaned in just close enough to murmur:

"The wedding is in three days. And when you wear my ring, Isabella, you'll realize the truth, whether you fight me or not, you're already mine."

Then he was gone, striding back toward the crowd, leaving me breathless, furious, and trembling against the cold stone.

I touched my lips, hating that I could still feel the ghost of his almost kiss.

I swore I would never let him break me. But Dante Moretti was already in my blood.

The silk clung to me like a lie.

Layers of ivory spilled around my body, delicate lace crawling up my shoulders and throat as if trying to choke me. I stared at my reflection in the gilded mirror, searching for the girl I'd been only a week ago. She was gone. In her place stood a bride, a pawn in a game that wasn't hers to play.

The seamstress fussed with the hem, whispering about perfection, about how the gown shimmered like moonlight. I barely heard her. My pulse was too loud, my throat too tight.

My hands trembled as I touched the diamond necklace fastened at my throat, its weight like chains. A Moretti heirloom. A collar.

"Breathe," my cousin Sofia urged softly from the corner of the room. She'd been allowed to stay, a shred of comfort in a day designed to strip me bare. "You look... beautiful."

I laughed bitterly. "Beautiful? Or bought?"

Her face fell, but before she could answer, the door opened. A hush swept through the room.

Dante.

He filled the doorway like he owned it, like he owned everything. A dark suit, black as sin, tailored to perfection, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he wasn't a man bound by rules. No tie, no hesitation. He walked inside as though tradition itself bent for him.

The seamstress dropped into a nervous curtsy and fled. Sofia slipped out too, leaving me alone with him.

His eyes swept over me slowly, possessively, until my skin burned under his gaze. He stopped just in front of me, close enough that the scent of his cologne curled through my lungs, warm spice and danger.

"I was told," Dante said, his voice low velvet, "that brides glow on their wedding day. Yet you stand here ready for war."

My chin lifted. "Maybe because this feels less like a wedding and more like a funeral."

He smiled faintly, cruelly. "In some ways, it is. Today, Isabella Romano dies. Tonight, Isabella Moretti is born."

Heat rushed to my cheeks, anger, fear, something more dangerous. "You're disgusting."

His hand rose, fingertips brushing my cheekbone with a tenderness that contradicted every word. "And yet you can't look away."

I hated him for being right. My breath caught, traitorous, and he saw it. His smirk deepened.

Dante leaned close, his lips almost grazing my ear. "When you walk down that aisle, every man in the room will know you belong to me. Not because of an oath. Not because of a ring. But because I'll make sure they see what I already feel, your pulse racing every time I touch you."

My knees nearly buckled, fury and unwanted desire tangling inside me. I shoved him back, but he let me, stepping away with a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

"I'll see you at the altar, wife."

And then he was gone, leaving the room colder, my reflection in the mirror more foreign than ever.

The church was a cathedral of marble and gold, its vaulted ceilings echoing with murmurs of power. Not a single guest was there for me. They were here for him, for the spectacle of Dante Moretti marrying the daughter of his family's oldest rival.

I walked down the aisle slowly, the train of my gown whispering across polished stone. Cameras flashed discreetly, heads turned, murmurs rippled. Every glance felt like a blade.

And at the end of the aisle, he waited.

Dante stood before the altar like a king awaiting his crown. Dark suit immaculate, a single crimson rose at his lapel, blood on black. His eyes never left mine. That cold silver gaze pinned me in place, even as my steps carried me closer.

When I reached him, he extended his hand. Large, steady, commanding. The touch that had burned me in private was now offered in public. I hesitated, but every eye in the cathedral watched. My father's warning echoed in my head: Refuse, and you'll destroy us all.

I placed my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine, warm and strong. The faintest squeeze, possessive, not comforting.

"You're breathtaking," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. "And mine."

The priest's voice droned through the ceremony, vows, alliances, the façade of holy union laid over a bloodstained contract. I barely heard it. All I could feel was Dante's thumb brushing slow circles over the back of my hand, a subtle, deliberate caress no one else could see.

My pulse betrayed me.

When it came time to speak my vows, my voice wavered but didn't break. "I, Isabella Romano..."

Dante's eyes softened, no, sharpened as I spoke, his gaze a blade cutting straight through me. When it was his turn, he delivered the words like oaths carved in stone:

"I, Dante Moretti, take you, Isabella Romano, as my wife. I promise to protect you from all enemies..."his gaze held mine

"...including yourself."

A murmur rippled through the pews. He smirked faintly, as if daring anyone to question it.

The priest declared us husband and wife.

"You may kiss the bride," he said.

Dante didn't hesitate.

He pulled me into his arms, not roughly, but firmly, a hand at my back, the other cupping my jaw. His mouth found mine in a kiss that was both a claim and a performance. Soft enough to look tender, deep enough to make my knees weaken, lingering just long enough to leave me trembling.

The congregation erupted into applause.

Dante pulled back slowly, his breath mingling with mine, his lips barely brushing my ear. "Smile for them, wife," he whispered, the word a caress and a command. "We'll save the real fire for later."

I forced a smile, my hands clenched in his. But inside, a storm churned.

I'd married him.

I was his.

And yet, as the applause faded, one thought cut through the haze:

He might have won this round, but the war is far from over.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above the ballroom, casting light across rows of gilded tables heavy with champagne and caviar. A string quartet played, though their elegant music was drowned beneath the roar of conversation. Deals were being made over crystal glasses, alliances toasted, enemies smiled through clenched teeth.

It wasn't a wedding reception. It was a display of power.

And at the center of it stood Dante Moretti.

He looked devastatingly at ease, shaking hands with politicians, exchanging murmurs with kings of industry, his presence commanding the room. Always, though, his hand remained at the small of my back, a subtle anchor that tethered me to him no matter how far I wanted to drift.

Every time I shifted, every time I tried to step even an inch away, his palm pressed lightly against me, guiding me back. To anyone watching, it looked like devotion. To me, it was a leash.

"Smile," he whispered in my ear as another toast was raised. His lips brushed my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. "They're watching. Give them the perfect bride."

My lips curved, though my eyes burned. "You're enjoying this."

"I'm enjoying you." His tone was smooth, lethal, filled with double meanings. "And I'm savoring the knowledge that every man in this room envies me."

I turned my head, meeting his gaze. "Let them envy you. You don't have me."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Not yet."

Dinner passed in a blur of champagne, hollow laughter, and glances that felt like chains. Every time Dante leaned in to speak, his hand brushed my thigh beneath the tablecloth, a secret touch that made my breath catch and my pulse race despite myself.

When the final toast rang out, Dante rose smoothly, tugging me to my feet beside him. He lifted his glass, his voice carrying through the ballroom like a decree.

"To my wife," he said, his eyes locked on mine. "The blood that binds two families. The fire that will build an empire."

Applause thundered. Glasses clinked.

I stood frozen, the weight of his words crushing me. Fire. Blood. Empire. This wasn't a marriage, it was a coronation.

Dante set down his glass, leaned close so only I could hear. His lips brushed my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

"Now, wife," he murmured, "it's time for our honeymoon."

My stomach dropped. My hands tightened around the stem of my glass until I thought it might shatter.

Honeymoon.

The word wasn't a promise. It was a threat.

The applause still echoed when Dante's hand closed around mine, firm and unyielding. He didn't wait for goodbyes, didn't allow me a final glance at Sofia's worried face across the ballroom. He simply led me out, cutting a path through the crowd with the certainty of a man who never asked permission.

Guards fell into step behind us. The massive doors of the ballroom swung open, revealing the night beyond, sleek black cars lined up like soldiers, engines purring in anticipation.

The chill of the evening air bit through the silk of my gown. Dante shrugged out of his jacket in a single, fluid motion and draped it over my bare shoulders. The gesture looked protective, even tender, but I knew better. It was a brand, a reminder that I carried his name now, his power, his claim.

"Where are we going?" I demanded as he guided me toward the waiting limousine.

His lips curved, the barest hint of a smile. "To begin what we've vowed."

The door opened. The interior glowed with soft golden light, leather seats gleaming. Inside, it was intimate, inescapable.

I hesitated on the curb, heart thundering. Every instinct screamed to run, but there was nowhere left to go. My family had delivered me into his hands. My signature had been written in fire and blood.

Dante leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "Don't make me carry you, Isabella. Unless, of course, you'd like me to."

Heat and dread tangled viciously in my chest. I climbed in without another word.

The door shut behind me with a heavy, final click.

Dante slid in beside me, the space between us vanishing instantly. The car pulled away, the city lights streaking past in a blur. His hand came down on my thigh, deliberate, claiming, a touch that promised everything I feared.

I turned to him, forcing steel into my voice even as my body betrayed me with a tremor. "You can put on a ring. You can drag me into your bed. But you'll never own me."

Dante's eyes gleamed in the dim light, silver fire laced with hunger. He leaned in, lips so close I could taste the danger on his breath.

"Wife," he murmured, "I already do."

The car sped into the night, carrying me toward a future I hadn't chosen and a man who would burn me alive before letting me go.

The limousine slowed, tires crunching over gravel. I hadn't realized how far we'd driven until the city lights vanished, replaced by the hush of waves and the smell of salt on the air.

The villa appeared like something out of a fever dream, white stone walls, glass windows soaring toward the night sky, firelight flickering inside. Remote. Isolated. The kind of place no one would hear me scream.

Dante stepped out first, offering his hand. I ignored it, sliding from the car on my own. My gown still clung to me, heavy from the endless day, but my spine stayed straight.

He didn't look offended. If anything, his faint smirk said he enjoyed the fight.

Inside, the villa was worse, no, more dangerous than I'd imagined. Polished marble floors gleamed beneath low golden light. A fire roared in the massive stone hearth, its glow spilling across velvet couches and decanters of wine. A staircase curved upward, promising rooms draped in silk and shadows.

It was decadent. It was a cage.

Dante loosened his tie as he followed me inside, tossing it carelessly onto a chair. He moved like a man shedding armor, revealing the raw, relentless heat beneath.

"Like it?" he asked, voice low.

I turned on him, my heart hammering. "This isn't a honeymoon. It's a prison."

His gaze darkened. In two strides, he was in front of me, his hand cupping my jaw, tilting my face toward his. His thumb brushed over my lower lip, slow, deliberate.

"You call it a prison." His voice was a whisper of smoke and fire. "I call it the beginning."

I should have shoved him away. I should have slapped him, screamed, anything. Instead, a shiver ran through me, betraying me, making his eyes gleam with triumph.

Then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was nothing like the one in the church. That had been a performance. This was a possession.

His lips crashed against mine, hungry, relentless. His hand slid into my hair, holding me still as his tongue swept past my lips, claiming every breath. I gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound greedily, deepening the kiss until the world tilted.

Heat roared through me, fury and desire colliding in a storm I couldn't control. My hands pressed against his chest, whether to push him away or pull him closer, I didn't know. The hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt burned beneath my palms, making my knees weak.

Dante groaned softly against my mouth, the sound low and devastating. His other hand traced the line of my spine, pulling me flush against him, erasing every inch of space. The firelight painted his skin in gold and shadow, making him look like a man carved from danger itself.

When he finally tore his mouth from mine, I was trembling, breathless, lips swollen from the force of him.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his forehead pressed against mine. His breath was hot, ragged. "Say the word, Isabella, and I'll walk away."

I wanted to. God help me, I wanted to. But my voice caught in my throat, trapped between defiance and the undeniable truth that I didn't want him to stop.

Dante's slow, satisfied smile told me he already knew and he didn't give me time to recover. His lips claimed mine again, slower this time, a deep, deliberate exploration that made my stomach twist and my knees threaten to buckle.

I shoved at his chest, desperate for space, but his hand caught my wrist, guiding it back to his heart. His pulse thundered beneath my palm, matching the wild rhythm of my own.

"You feel that?" he whispered against my lips. "That's what you do to me."

Before I could answer, his mouth descended again, hot and demanding. My protests melted into a gasp as his tongue tangled with mine, each stroke pulling me deeper into the fire.

His hands moved with purpose, one fisting gently in my hair, the other sliding down, skimming the curve of my waist, then lower, tracing the silk of my gown as though memorizing every inch. When his palm spread over my hip, possessive, my breath hitched.

"Dante..." I began, but the word broke into a moan when his teeth caught my lower lip, tugging gently before releasing it.

"Say my name like that again," he murmured, voice roughened with hunger.

I shook my head, furious with myself, with him, with the way my body betrayed me. But he didn't let me retreat. He guided me backward until my spine met the cool marble of a column, caging me in with his body. His heat pressed against me, solid and unyielding, the fire at his back casting us both in molten gold.

His mouth left mine only to trail lower, along my jaw, down my throat. Each kiss was slow, lingering, designed to unravel me. My hands clawed at his shoulders, unsure if I wanted to pull him closer or push him away.

When his lips brushed the hollow of my throat, I gasped, my head tipping back against the stone. His smile curved against my skin, wicked and knowing.

"You're trembling," he murmured. "Not from fear."

My pulse stuttered, my denial tangled on my tongue. He didn't wait for it. His hands found the delicate row of buttons down the back of my gown, fingers working with deliberate slowness.

"Don't you dare..." I hissed, but the sound turned into another gasp as the silk loosened, slipping against my skin.

"Oh, I dare," Dante said softly, his lips returning to mine in a bruising kiss. The gown slid lower, baring the tops of my shoulders to his touch. His fingers grazed the newly exposed skin, reverent and possessive all at once.

The fire roared in the hearth. My breath came in shallow bursts.

Piece by piece, he was stripping away my defenses. My gown would be next.

And the terrifying part? A traitorous voice deep inside me whispered that I wanted him to.

The silk of my gown gave way beneath Dante's hands, slipping down my arms like water. It pooled at my feet with a whisper, leaving me exposed in the dim firelight.

A shiver ran through me from the way he looked at me. His eyes darkened, hunger and warring in their depths, as if I were both a prize and a sin he couldn't resist.

He touched me then, slowly, deliberately. Fingers trailing over my bare shoulders, down the curve of my waist, brushing my hip before rising to cup my face again. Every touch seared, every stroke leaving me trembling, undone.

"You're exquisite," he murmured, his thumb grazing the corner of my mouth. "Mine."

Before I could protest, he swept me into his arms. I gasped, clutching at him instinctively as he carried me up the sweeping staircase. The world blurred, marble, glass, firelight and then he set me down on a vast bed draped in silk the color of midnight.

I scrambled back, defiance sparking through the haze of heat. "You can't just ..."

Dante's mouth silenced me. His kiss was fire and steel, fierce enough to steal the breath from my lungs. His weight pressed me into the mattress, his body covering mine, every line of muscle and heat pinning me in place.

I tried to turn away, to deny him, but his lips followed, jaw, throat, the swell of my breast. Each kiss made my resistance falter, replaced with a pulse of liquid heat that spread through me in waves.

His hands roamed with devastating certainty, sliding beneath the thin lace that still covered me, fingertips brushing against bare skin. My back arched involuntarily, a moan slipping past my lips before I could bite it back.

"Isabella," he groaned, the sound raw, reverent. His mouth returned to mine, desperate now, consuming.

Somewhere in the haze, his shirt was gone. His chest pressed against mine, hot, hard, skin to skin. My fingers found his shoulders, gripping tight as if I could anchor myself against the storm tearing through me.

When he finally joined our bodies completely, I cried out, the world splintering into fire and sensation. He swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing me like he'd never stop, like he'd devour me whole.

There was no escape. Not from him, not from the way he moved inside me, deep and demanding, every thrust a claim, every kiss a vow. My nails raked down his back, my body betraying me with every frantic beat of my heart.

And in the firelit darkness, as pleasure consumed me, I realized with dawning terror that part of me didn't want to fight him anymore.

The world stilled.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing, ragged, uneven, echoing in the vast silence of the villa. The fire in the hearth burned low, shadows licking over the walls, wrapping us in their dark embrace.

Dante didn't move away. He stayed pressed against me, his body heavy and warm, his face buried in the curve of my neck. His breath was hot against my skin, his heartbeat hammering in time with mine.

Then he lifted his head, and I saw it, the raw, unguarded hunger in his eyes. Not just desire. Something deeper. Something that terrified me more than his strength, his power, even his name.

He brushed his lips over mine, softer now, almost tender. A caress rather than a conquest. His fingers tangled gently in my hair, smoothing it back as though I were precious.

"You're mine now," he whispered, voice hoarse with satisfaction. "Not just tonight. Always."

The words should have made me recoil. Should have filled me with rage. Instead, they struck something inside me, something fragile, something reckless. My chest tightened, my throat ached, and I hated myself for it.

I turned my face away, but his hand caught my chin, guiding me back to him. His eyes searched mine, dark and unrelenting.

"I'll give you the world, Isabella. Diamonds, blood, kingdoms...none of it means anything without you in my bed, in my arms." His mouth brushed my temple, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll burn the world to keep you."

A tremor ran through me. The vow was terrifying. And yet, God help me, it made my pulse quicken, my body betray me all over again.

When he finally pulled me against his chest, holding me as though I belonged to him, I didn't resist. My head rested over his heart, and I listened to the steady beat beneath my ear.

I should have felt trapped. But instead, for the first time, I felt...safe.

The realization struck like lightning, scorching through me, leaving only smoke and fear in its wake.

Because the truth was worse than the marriage, worse than the cage, worse than Dante's ruthless power.

I was starting to want him.

And wanting him would destroy me.