(He Forces Himself to Respect Her Boundaries… but It Tortures Him)
Aria woke to the soft glow of the morning sun spilling through the tall windows. The sheets around her were warm, scented faintly of cedar and something darker, Dante even in his absence, he lingered.
She sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from her muscles. Last night's moment on the balcony replayed in her mind, Dante's hand on her cheek, his breath mingling with hers, the world collapsing to the space between their mouths. The look in his eyes had been hunger and hesitation tangled together.
And then he stepped away.
She whispered into the quiet room, "Why?"
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Aria stiffened. "Come in."
The door opened slowly, and Dante stepped in.
Not in one of his suits, not poised like a king but in a dark Henley and black slacks, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly mussed. Human. Devastating.
He paused at the threshold, hands clasped behind his back as if fighting himself.
"Good morning," he said quietly.
Those two words shouldn't have made her heart stumble. But they did.
Aria cleared her throat. "Morning."
He looked at her, then away as though it cost him something to meet her eyes.
"I wanted to check on you," he said. "After yesterday."
The discomfort between them was new. He wasn't the Dante who issued orders like laws. He wasn't the man who grabbed her waist and pulled her against him with reckless certainty.
He was… careful.
Too careful.
Aria crossed her arms. "You've been avoiding me."
His jaw flexed.
"Not avoiding," he said. "Giving you space."
She raised a brow. "Why?"
Dante's eyes flicked up sharply, something raw behind them.
"Because," he said, voice low, "if I don't step back, I won't step back at all."
Her breath caught.
He moved closer, slowly, deliberately until he stood at the foot of the bed. But he did not touch her. Every line of his body was wound tight, as though proximity alone was painful.
"You said you wanted boundaries," he continued. "I heard you."
Aria swallowed. "I didn't ask you to… disappear."
"No." His voice was rough, almost hoarse. "But if I get too close, I forget myself. I forget the line between what I want…" His gaze dropped to her mouth for a heartbeat, "…and what you're ready for."
Her pulse hammered.
She had expected threats, intensity, possessiveness.
Not restraint.
Not this kind of gentleness that came from a place deeper than desire.
"Dante…" she began.
He took a step back immediately.
Her chest tightened at the distance.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," he said quietly. "I'm trying not to."
The words landed like a blow.
For a man like Dante DeLuca who took, commanded, seized, this restraint was agony.
Aria rose from the bed, standing before him. "I'm not made of glass," she whispered.
He let out a breath that could've broken stone.
"No," he said. "You're made of fire. And I am..."
He stopped himself.
But she knew, he was made of gasoline.
She reached out instinctively but he flinched.
Not from fear.
From control.
His voice lowered to a dangerous whisper. "Aria, don't."
"Why?"
His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked.
"If you touch me, I won't let you stop."
Her breath faltered.
Silence flooded the room, thick and electrified.
Aria's pulse thrummed with something she didn't want to name just yet. "And what if," she said softly, "I'm not the one who wants to stop?"
Dante went still.
Completely.
Like a predator every instinct screamed to pounce but was held back by sheer force of will.
Then he stepped back again.
"Don't say that," he rasped. "Not unless you mean it."
Aria felt heat rise to her cheeks, but she didn't look away. "Maybe I do."
He cursed under his breath, a low, Italian word that made her shiver but he stayed rooted to the spot. Fighting himself. Torturing himself.
Finally he spoke, voice low and ragged.
"I will not touch you," he said, "until you're sure. Not because of fear. Not because of the contract. Not because you feel trapped or grateful or reckless."
His eyes burned into hers.
"But because you choose me."
Her heartbeat stuttered.
She hadn't expected this. Not from a man like him.
"And what if I never choose you?" she challenged softly.
Dante's chest rose and fell once, hard.
"Then I will burn quietly," he said. "And I will never lay a hand on you."
Her breath caught.
"To keep you, I must resist you," he added. "Even if it kills me."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the emotion in his eyes shuttered behind iron walls, and Dante straightened.
"I'll have breakfast sent up," he said, formal again. "You don't have to come downstairs."
"It's my home too," she said stubbornly.
One corner of his mouth twitched. "Then join me when you're ready."
He left the room with slow, deliberate steps.
Aria stared at the closed door long after he disappeared.
Her heart beat too fast.
Her skin buzzed.
Her thoughts twisted like vines.
She had never felt so protected.
She had never felt so desired.
She had never felt so dangerously close to wanting the devil.
And somewhere deep inside…
She feared she was beginning to choose him.