The mansion was larger than I could have ever imagined. Even after hours of sitting frozen in the leather chair, I had only glimpsed a fraction of the sprawling estate. High ceilings loomed above me, crystal chandeliers scattered faint, cold light across polished floors, and dark hallways stretched into shadowed corners that seemed to whisper secrets I wasn't supposed to hear.
But fear, as suffocating as it was, couldn't fully suppress my curiosity.
When I thought Dante had retreated for the night, I cautiously rose from the chair. Every step was deliberate, silent, careful. I moved along the hallway, tracing my fingers lightly along the walls as if the texture alone could reassure me that I was not entirely alone.
I stopped at the first open doorway I found. A library. Shelves of leather-bound books towered over me, dim light spilling from a single lamp on the far table. Dust floated in the air, disturbed only by my hesitant movements. I wanted to linger, to touch the spines, to find some clue about this man who had taken everything from me—my freedom, my normalcy, my life.
A floorboard creaked behind me. My heart jumped into my throat. I pressed myself against a shelf, breath shallow, listening. Silence. Too much silence. My pulse still thumped painfully in my ears.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to continue. The room smelled faintly of old paper, polished wood, and something darker, almost like smoke. I picked up a book, flipping through pages absentmindedly. The words didn't matter. I was searching, always searching, for something I didn't know I could name.
Hours—or maybe minutes—passed. Shadows moved unnaturally along the walls, and the mansion seemed to close in around me. Every hallway looked the same, every staircase seemed to twist and turn into unknown corners. I realized I was not only trapped physically, but psychologically as well.
Then I heard it.
The soft, deliberate sound of footsteps.
I froze, heart hammering, as the sound drew closer.
"Curious, aren't we?"
Dante's voice. Smooth, low, dangerous.
My stomach dropped. I had thought I was alone. I had thought I could sneak a few steps of defiance without consequence. But he had always known. He always knew.
He emerged from the shadows, his eyes locking onto mine with that same dark intensity that had haunted my thoughts since the night at The Oval. "You're exploring," he said softly, almost amused.
I swallowed, trying to stand tall despite the fear twisting my insides. "I… I just… wanted to see—"
"You wanted to see," he repeated, cutting me off, his lips curving faintly into something that was not quite a smile. "Curiosity can be dangerous, Mila. Especially when you're in my world."
My chest tightened. I wanted to argue, to run, to scream. But his presence alone pinned me in place. His control was absolute, his attention impossible to escape.
He circled me slowly, predatorily, as I tried to shrink against the nearest shelf. "Do you understand what happens to those who disobey?" he asked, voice low, teasing, dangerous.
"Yes," I whispered, knowing full well I had already disobeyed.
"Good," he said, stopping just behind me. His presence was suffocating. "Curiosity has a price, Mila. Remember that. And yet…" His hand brushed my shoulder—not quite touching fully, just close enough to make the air sizzle. "…I cannot punish you for it yet. Not tonight."
Relief washed over me—but only briefly.
I wanted to run the moment he turned away. But I didn't. I wanted to flee from his gaze, escape from his power, reclaim some shred of independence. Yet I remained, rooted to the spot, both terrified and inexplicably drawn to him.
"I will give you one rule tonight," he said, voice soft but commanding. "You will explore, but only in the areas I allow. You will not touch anything, not a single item. You will not linger. And most importantly… you will not try to leave this floor."
I nodded, my throat too tight for words.
"Good." He stepped into the shadows again, leaving me alone—or as alone as one could be with the knowledge that he was always watching.
I moved cautiously, exploring the restricted hallway. Each door I passed seemed to hold a story, a secret, a glimpse into the life of a man who had everything—and who wanted me.
One room, larger than any bedroom I had ever seen, contained a grand piano and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights. I pressed my hands against the glass, staring out at the glittering skyline, imagining what it would be like to be free. But the fantasy was cruel, fleeting. I was not free. Not yet.
Another door revealed a small sitting room, books and velvet armchairs arranged as if someone had been waiting for a guest. I stepped inside, brushing my fingers across a polished table, feeling the weight of his presence even in absence.
I paused by a painting—a portrait of a man who looked strikingly like Dante. The eyes in the painting seemed almost alive, following me as I moved. I swallowed, stepping back instinctively. The room suddenly felt smaller, oppressive, as if I had just glimpsed the full extent of the power I was now entangled with.
And then I heard it again—footsteps, deliberate, measured.
I froze, heart hammering.
"You're brave," Dante said, voice low behind me. "Or foolish. Sometimes they are the same thing."
I turned slowly, catching his eyes, trying to steel myself against the fear curling in my chest. "I just… I need to know," I whispered.
He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he intended to solve. "You will know, eventually. But tonight… you are learning patience. And the consequences of disobedience."
I swallowed hard, feeling the thrill of fear and fascination collide within me. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over me, the faintest brush of his hand against mine igniting a spark I didn't want to acknowledge.
"Rest now," he said finally. "You will need your strength for tomorrow. And remember…" He leaned close, his lips brushing my ear, "…I am always watching."
The room seemed colder after he left. The city lights beyond the windows no longer offered comfort; they were a reminder that the world I had known was gone. I sank into a chair, wrapping my arms around myself, feeling both terrified and inexplicably drawn to the man who had stolen my freedom.
For the first time, I realized something frightening and undeniable: my life was no longer mine. And yet, a part of me—the part I refused to admit—was eager to understand him.
Because in his world, curiosity was dangerous… but sometimes, it was irresistible.
I spent the rest of the night pacing quietly, exploring each room he had allowed me to enter, memorizing every corner, every shadow, every potential escape route. I didn't touch anything. I didn't speak. But I did listen. I listened to the house. The creaks, the whispers of the wind outside, the hum of the city far below—everything told me that he was everywhere, even when he wasn't.
And I knew, with terrifying clarity, that Dante Moretti was not a man I could defy lightly. Not if I wanted to survive.