POV: Dante
The silence in the back of the Rolls-Royce was a physical entity, thick and vibrating with everything unsaid. Isabella sat as far from him as the leather seat would allow, staring out the tinted window at the blur of Manhattan lights. The scent of her perfume—that light, floral defiance—and the memory of Viktor Volkov's lips on her skin warred in his senses, twisting his gut into a knot of cold fury.
Such a beautiful cage.
The Russian's words, the intimate way he'd leaned into her space, the proprietary glint in his pale eyes—it played on a loop behind Dante's eyes. He hadn't protected her from that. He'd been distracted by her beauty, by the feel of her in his arms, and by the shocking rightness of her body moving with his. He'd left her side for thirty seconds. Thirty seconds for a viper to slither in and whisper poison.
The car passed through the mansion gates. She was out of the vehicle almost before it stopped, sweeping up the steps, a vision of midnight blue silk and simmering tension. He followed, his footsteps measured, a predator giving prey the illusion of a head start.
He found her in their bedroom, already trying to reach the zipper at the back of the dress, her movements frantic. The elegant updo was coming undone, a dark tendril curling against the long, exposed line of her spine. The sight was a punch to his solar plexus.
"What did he say to you?"
She jumped at his voice, her hands stilling. She didn't turn around. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me." He closed the bedroom door with a soft, definitive click. "What words did that animal breathe against your skin?"
She finally turned, her green eyes flashing in the low light. "Why? So you can add them to your list of my transgressions? So you can use them as another reason to tighten the locks?"
He took a step forward. "So I can know what threat I need to eliminate."
"The threat is in this room!" She shot back, her voice rising. "It has been since the moment I walked into it! Volkov just gave it a different accent!"
Her defiance, always a spark, now fanned the blaze of his jealousy into an inferno. She was protecting Volkov's secret. She chose to keep the Russian's words confidential between them. The intimacy of that choice was a betrayal far deeper than any slap.
He crossed the room in four long strides, stopping just before her. "You will tell me what he said."
"Or what?" she challenged, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. She was magnificent in her anger, the dress shimmering with her rapid breaths. "You'll force it from me? Go ahead. It seems to be the only way you know how to communicate."
His control, the iron discipline that ruled his empire and his every waking moment, snapped.
He didn't grab her. He caged her. His hands came down on the dresser on either side of her, pinning her between his arms. He leaned in, his body not touching hers, but enveloping her in his heat, his scent, and his rage. "You think this is a game of communication? This is a war, Isabella. And in war, intelligence is survival. What did he say?"
She didn't flinch. If anything, she leaned into the space, her eyes blazing up at him. "He said I was in a cage. He said, "All birds either fly or die." A bitter, hollow laugh escaped her. "He saw it in one glance, Dante. What, I am here. He named it."
The truth of it, the fact that Volkov had seen her vulnerability—his vulnerability—and aimed for it with sniper precision, made the blood roar in his ears. But beneath the strategic fury boiled something darker, more possessive. The image of Volkov's mouth near her ear, whispering secrets Dante couldn't hear.
"And did he offer to open the cage door?" Dante's voice was a low, dangerous rasp.
"Would it matter if he did?"
"It would be the last offer he ever made."
The air between them, charged since the dance, ignited. The anger twisted, morphing into something hotter, more primal. His gaze dropped from her defiant eyes to her parted lips. He remembered the almost-kiss on the floor, the taste of her breath, and the way she'd leaned in before she'd pulled away.
He saw the same memory flash in her eyes, followed by a wave of something that wasn't fear. It was recognition. A shared, terrible hunger.
His head dipped. He watched her eyelids flutter and saw the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. Her breath hitched. This time, she didn't pull away. She was waiting. Testing. He was as lost in this gravitational pull as she was.
A whisper from his mouth would brush her lips. He could take what the contract promised, what his every cell screamed for. He could consume the fire she threw at him, and anyone would finally, finally know its source.
Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to brace against his chest. The touch, even through his shirt, was electric. A soft, traitorous sound caught in her throat.
It was her undoing, and it was his.
He closed the last millimeter.
And she shoved him.
It wasn't a frantic scramble. It was a firm, deliberate push against his pectorals, putting precious inches of cold air between them. Her eyes were wide, not with terror, but with a dawning, horrified clarity.
"No," she breathed, the word trembling with effort. "I won't… I won't be another possession you claim in a fit of jealousy. Not like this."
The rejection was a physical blow, more devastating than any enemy's strike. It laid bare the truth he'd been hiding from himself. This affair wasn't about securing an asset or fulfilling a contract. It had stopped being about that the moment he'd knelt on the floor and felt her tears on his hand.
The words were out before he could stop them, ripped from a place he'd sealed shut a lifetime ago. Raw, unfiltered, and utterly true.
"You're not a possession."
He saw the shock register in her eyes. He pressed on, the dam broken, the floodgates open.
"You're an obsession."
The confession hung in the air, stark and terrifying. He saw her absorb it, the anger in her face melting into something like awe, and then, fear. Fear of the magnitude of what he'd just admitted. Fear of what it meant for both of them.
She was no longer just a captive. She was the center of his universe, and he was spinning out of control.
With a choked sound, she ducked under his arm, a flash of blue silk and bare skin. She fled across the bedroom, not to the armchair, but into the bathroom. The lock clicked shut, a sound as final as a tomb sealing.
Dante stood alone, his hands still braced on the dresser, the ghost of her push still humming against his chest. The room echoed with his confession.
Obsession.
It was a weakness. It was a fatal flaw. Viktor Volkov had sniffed it out in an instant. And Isabella… she held it now. She held him.
A torrent of frustrated, furious energy—at Volkov, at her, at himself—coursed through him, seeking an outlet. With a guttural roar that tore from the depths of his being, he spun and drove his fist into the wall beside the door.
The impact was a sickening crunch of plaster and bone. Pain, white-hot and clarifying, exploded up his arm. He left his fist embedded in the wall, hanging there, breathing raggedly, staring at the fractured web in the perfect, painted surface.
The walls of his control were crumbling, and he was the one swinging the sledgehammer.
All for a bird who was learning she had the power to make the cage tremble.