The storm outside rattled the tall windows of the estate, though the rain hadn't yet reached the city streets below. Lena lingered in the hallway, pacing with restless fingers pressed to her temples. She had tried to sleep, tried to eat, tried to convince herself that being alive meant she had some measure of safety. But she couldn't shake the unease that had been creeping into her chest for days, ever since the argument with Dante.
He wasn't just a captor. He wasn't just a strategist. He carried something with him, something heavier than revenge, something more dangerous than anger.
Her first instinct was to ignore it. Don't pry. Don't provoke. But curiosity gnawed at her.
The door to his private study was slightly ajar. She paused, her heart hammering. The low hum of the storm mingled with faint movement inside. It was quiet. too quiet.
"Dante?" she called softly.
No answer.
She stepped closer, the polished wood floor cool under her bare feet. The smell of leather and old books filled her nose as she pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.
He was there.
Sitting at his desk, sleeves rolled up, head bent over a set of papers. He didn't notice her. Not immediately. The candlelight flickered across the pale scar that ran down his forearm, a thin, silvery line, partially hidden by the watch he wore. Lena's breath caught.
"Can I come in?" she asked cautiously.
He looked up slowly, eyes dark and unreadable. But there was a flicker there, something subtle, almost cautious. "If you must," he said, voice low.
She stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind her. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
"You did," he said flatly. "But you're already here. Might as well speak."
She hesitated, her gaze traveling over the scar again. It wasn't just a mark on his skin. It was a story. Pain. Memory. Something he carried with him like a shadow he could never shake.
"How did you…?" she began, unsure how to phrase it.
"Does it matter?" he interrupted, his tone sharper than he intended. Then he sighed, leaning back in the chair. "It happened a long time ago."
"I want to understand," she said, stepping closer. "If I'm here… then I need to know who you are."
His eyes narrowed. "You think knowing will make you safer?"
"No," she admitted softly. "But it will make you… human. Not just the man who kidnaps me and holds me in a cage."
For a moment, silence filled the room. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, Dante pushed his sleeves further up, exposing more of the scars running down both arms. Thin, jagged lines that told stories she couldn't begin to imagine.
"They weren't from fights," he said finally, voice quieter now. "Not all of them. Some… mistakes. Some punishment. Some… people I should have saved but didn't."
Lena's stomach tightened. "You blame yourself?"
He didn't answer at first. Instead, he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "I do. Every day."
Her hands itched to reach out. She wanted to touch him, to soothe the pain she could see but not fully understand. But she held back. She had learned early that touching Dante Russo was dangerous, not just physically, but emotionally.
"You wear it well," she said softly, surprising herself. "Your scars… they don't make you weak. They… make you more real."
He looked at her then, really looked, and for the first time she saw something flicker in his eyes, vulnerability, raw and fleeting. "Most people see them and think I'm damaged," he admitted. "They think I'm broken. But you… you don't."
She swallowed. "I've seen what fear can do to people," she said. "And you… you don't make me afraid."
For a moment, the air between them shifted, heavy with tension, unspoken words, and dangerous curiosity. He leaned back in his chair, trying to regain control of the moment. "I wasn't trying to protect you with my scars," he said. "I'm not a hero, Lena. Not in the way you might imagine."
"I don't need you to be," she whispered. "I just… need to know the truth about yourself. If we're trapped in this… in this war, then I need to know the man I'm facing."
Dante's jaw tightened. The words had pierced a part of him he didn't like to expose. His scars were not just history; they were reminders of every failure, every loss, every time the world had proven cruel.
"You think showing them to you will make you feel safe?" he asked, a hint of dark amusement in his voice.
"No," she said. "But it… makes me see you. And I need to see you."
There was a long silence. Lena's heartbeat filled the room, loud and insistent. Dante's gaze never left hers. There was an unspoken recognition between them, danger, desire, power, and something more fragile that neither of them could name yet.
Finally, Dante's expression softened slightly. "You shouldn't care this much," he murmured.
"I do," she admitted. "And maybe that's what makes me alive in a place like this."
For the first time since she arrived, Dante didn't respond with control, with order, or with coldness. He simply let her words hang between them, dangerous, intoxicating, real.
And Lena realized something terrifying: understanding him didn't make her safe. It made her… closer.
Closer to the man who could destroy her.
Closer to the enemy she wasn't sure she could resist.
The storm outside had begun to rage, but inside, a different kind of storm had just started. One of curiosity, tension, and the first fragile threads of something neither of them had expected to feel.
She stayed in the room long after the candles flickered low, watching him. Dante didn't notice her, or maybe he did and chose not to act. Either way, Lena knew one thing with absolute certainty: the man who had kidnapped her carried more pain than she had ever imagined. And that pain… was dangerous, magnetic, and frighteningly real.
And as much as she hated to admit it, she wanted to be close to it.