The ride back from the council was a silent war.
Dante lounged in the seat beside her, storm-grey eyes fixed on the darkness outside, his posture relaxed—but the air around him was electric, humming with barely contained power. Aria sat poised, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as if she hadn't just faced down wolves and survived.
But inside, her chest was a storm.
The memory of their gazes, their laughter, the way Romano tested her, the way Valenti tried to cut her with his tongue—all of it boiled in her veins. And Dante… Dante had watched her like a predator assessing prey and potential at the same time.
When they reached the Moretti penthouse, Dante dismissed the guards with a flick of his wrist. Only silence followed them into the vast suite, its floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the city's night lights like scattered diamonds.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And then he was on her.
Not with touch, not yet—but with presence. He closed the distance in three strides, his hand braced against the wall near her head, caging her in. His storm-grey eyes burned into hers, his voice low, sharp, dangerous.
"You impressed them."
Aria tilted her chin up, refusing to flinch. "Did you expect me to faint at the first sign of blood?"
A shadow of a smirk tugged at his lips. "No. But you spoke like a queen tonight. Careful, Aria—you'll have them believing you actually belong here."
Her jaw clenched. "And if I do?"
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before cutting back up. "Then you'll make the most dangerous mistake of your life. Believing you're untouchable."
The air between them crackled.
Her pulse pounded, but she refused to step back. "And what if you're the one who underestimates me?"
Dante's smirk vanished. His hand shot up, gripping her chin with just enough force to sting. He leaned in, his breath ghosting against her skin. "Careful, bella. You may have won their curiosity tonight, but curiosity kills faster than bullets in this world."
Her heart thundered. His nearness was suffocating, intoxicating, infuriating all at once. She hated the way his scent—smoke and steel—wrapped around her. Hated the flicker in her chest that wasn't fear, but something more dangerous.
Slowly, she raised her hand and pressed the flat of her palm against his chest, right over his heart. Not to push him away—but to remind him she wasn't powerless.
"You think I'm just playing wife," she whispered, her voice laced with venom, "but you forget—I'm playing for blood."
His eyes darkened. For a moment, she swore he would kiss her—or kill her.
Instead, he released her chin, stepping back with a low laugh. "Good. I'd hate for marriage to make life boring."
The sudden distance left her breathless, though she masked it with a steady stare.
Dante loosened his tie, shrugging off his jacket with the elegance of a man who had never been denied. He glanced over his shoulder at her, that smirk curling back into place.
"Get some rest, wife. Tomorrow, you'll learn what it really means to wear my name."
And with that, he disappeared into the master bedroom, leaving her in the silence, her fists clenched, her dagger heavy at her thigh.
Aria's breath came ragged, her chest rising and falling. She hated him—hated how he made her blood sing with fury and something she refused to name.
But one thought anchored her, sharp and unshakable.
One day, Dante Moretti. The storm you've caged will turn and devour you whole.
And when it did, she would make sure the crown he wore was drowned in blood.