Hours had passed since Dante had thrown the bread at her like she was nothing more than an animal. The crumbs still littered the floor, but Isabella sat silently in the corner, refusing to let her tears make her look weak—refusing to give him that satisfaction. She blinked hard, swallowing her sobs, pressing her lips into a thin line. She wouldn't let him see her cry.
But Dante… noticed everything.
He leaned forward, a strange softness flickering through his twisted eyes, the kind of softness that didn't belong to a man like him. His voice dropped into something almost gentle, but laced with that psychopathic calm that made her blood run cold.
"Little bird," he whispered, patting her head as if she were a pet, not a prisoner. "You don't want to eat it like that? Fine. I'll give you new bread."
He placed it carefully on a perfect white plate, setting it before her with a grotesque tenderness. He knelt down, brushing strands of hair from her face with the back of his hand. His smile curved—charming, dangerous, poisonous.
"Eat," he coaxed softly, almost lovingly. "Why don't you eat it, hm?"
Isabella looked at the bread, then lifted her bound wrists ever so slightly. Her hands were still tied. The message was clear.
Dante chuckled. That laugh—it wasn't warm, it wasn't kind. It was the laugh of a predator who enjoyed watching his prey squirm. He bent closer, his fingers toying with the knots, pretending to help… then suddenly, Isabella twisted, shoving him aside, trying to bolt for the door.
But Dante was faster. Always faster.
His arms closed around her from behind like iron shackles, locking her against his chest. He whispered against her ear, his breath hot, his tone laced with a sweet venom.
"Run again, and I'll clip your wings myself."
For the first time, Isabella's heart screamed louder than her thoughts. She felt threatened—her very existence trembling under the weight of his obsession. Words spilled from her lips without thought, whispered, desperate prayers.
"Wolf… please come out. Wolf, please… save me. I have to save myself from this…"
She thought it was madness, a hopeless chant, nothing more. She had buried that part of herself so long ago. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real.
But then—
A voice stirred within her. Dark, guttural, feminine.
"You want me now? After years of silence? You've kept me chained, hidden, forgotten. And now you beg? No, Isabella. Save yourself from him. Or I will not save you at all."
Her breath hitched. Her body trembled. And then—her skin rippled. Her nails stretched into claws, tips glinting sharp under the dim light. Fur shimmered faintly against her arms, her hands curling into paws.
Dante froze, his psychotic smile curling wider, not with fear—but with fascination. His madness only deepened at the sight.
"Ahh… so the sweet little human has teeth," he murmured, voice dripping with hunger.
But before the wolf within Isabella could fully surface, Dante struck. He ripped another rope from the table, tying her to a chair with ruthless precision, binding her struggling form tighter than before.
And then, in a mockery of tenderness, he lifted the bread and pressed it against her lips.
"Eat," he whispered, his tone soft, but his eyes murderous. "Eat, or I'll break you one bone at a time. Do you understand, my darling wolf?"
He fed her like a child, every motion deliberate, his obsession searing through the air like fire. His smile widened, psychotic and triumphant, as if he had caged not just a girl—but a beast.