By the third day, the silence was louder than the screams. Dante entered the room carrying a tray of food steak, red wine, and a sharp steak knife. He set it on the small table and sat across from her.
Sienna hadn't touched the clothes he'd left for her. She was still in the ruined silk dress, looking like a fallen angel.
"Eat," he commanded.
"I'm not hungry," she said, staring at the wall.
"I didn't ask if you were hungry. I said eat." Dante stood up, walked behind her, and placed his hands on her shoulders. His touch was heavy, territorial. "If you starve yourself, you get weak. If you get weak, you can't fight me. And I really want you to try and fight me, Sienna. It makes it so much more fun."
She turned her head, her nose inches from his. "You're obsessed. You've spent more time staring at me through that security camera than you have planning your revenge."
Dante leaned in, his jaw tight. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just making sure my property doesn't break."
"I am not your property, you arrogant prick!"
She reached for the wine glass to throw it at him, but Dante was faster. He caught her wrist, twisting it behind her back and pinning her against the table. The steak knife rattled on the tray.
"Careful," he whispered in her ear. "I have a very short temper, and you're testing every bit of it."
"Then do it," she challenged, her voice breaking. "Kill me. Finish the feud."
Dante's gaze dropped to her lips. The anger in the room shifted. It turned into something thicker, something that made the air feel like it was boiling. He didn't kill her. Instead, he pressed his body against hers, feeling the frantic beat of her heart.
"I'm not going to kill you," he muttered, his voice a low growl. "I'm going to ruin you. I'm going to make it so that even when you go back to your father, you'll still taste me. You'll still feel my hands on you. You'll belong to me in ways a name or a bloodline can't change."
He bent her back over the table, his mouth crashing onto hers. It wasn't a soft kiss. It was a war. It tasted like wine and desperation. Sienna tried to push him away, her hands fisted in his shirt, but her resistance crumbled into a moan as his hand slid up her thigh, ripping the silk of her dress.
"Tell me you hate me," Dante demanded against her skin, his teeth grazing her pulse point.
"I... I hate you," she gasped, even as she arched into him.
"Good," Dante groaned, his grip tightening until it left marks. "Keep saying it. Because I'm going to make you love the pain."
That night, the safehouse wasn't a prison anymore. It was a playground for two broken souls who should have been killing each other, but were too busy burning alive in the dark.