The mansion was silent, but my mind was screaming. I sat on the edge of my bed, the door locked, just as he'd ordered. The clock on the nightstand read 11:03 PM. He had been gone for three hours. Three hours that had stretched into an eternity. I couldn't read. I couldn't watch a movie. I couldn't do anything but pace the length of my room, my heart a frantic, panicked bird beating against the cage of my ribs. With every passing minute, the questions grew louder, more terrifying. *Where is he? Is he safe? Is he… alive?*
Midnight came and went. I took a scalding hot shower, hoping the steam would calm my frayed nerves, but it did nothing. I changed into soft pajamas and sat on the window seat, staring out at the empty, moonlit driveway. I thought about the man I had been so terrified of just weeks ago. The man who had bought me, who had imprisoned me. The man who had kissed my forehead and walked into the darkness to fight a war for me. "Trust me," he had said. And the most terrifying realization of all was that I did. When had that happened? When had the fear curdled into something else entirely?
I traced the path of my own emotional wreckage. The first meeting: pure terror. The contract: simmering hatred. The wedding: numb resignation. The gala: confusing, unwanted attraction. And tonight? Tonight, I was desperately, agonizingly worried about him. The truth hit me with the force of a physical blow. *I'm falling in love with him. God help me, I'm falling in love with a killer.* Tears I didn't know I had left to cry slipped down my cheeks, hot and silent.
At 1 AM, I couldn't stand it anymore. I unlocked my door and crept into the dark, silent hallway. The two guards stationed at the far end straightened as I approached. "Excuse me," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "Has Mr. Russo returned?"
"Not yet, ma'am," one of them replied, his face an unreadable mask. "Please return to your room. It's safer."
"Do you know if he's okay?" I pressed, my voice trembling.
"I'm sure he's fine, ma'am. He always is." It wasn't the reassurance I was looking for.
"Ella?" A soft voice came from behind me. It was Isabella, wrapped in a silk robe, her face etched with a familiar worry. "You should be sleeping."
"I can't," I admitted. "He's been gone for hours."
She sighed, a sound of weary resignation. "Come. Let's wait together." She led me to a small, comfortable sitting room, and a few minutes later, a maid brought us tea that neither of us touched.
"He does this," Isabella said, staring into the cold fireplace. "Goes dark for hours. And when he comes back… he's different."
"Different how?"
"Colder," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "More distant. It's like he leaves a part of himself out there in the darkness." She turned to look at me, her eyes searching mine. "But you… you might change that."
"What do you mean?"
"He's never had someone waiting for him before," she said simply. "Not someone who actually cares if he comes home. That changes a man."
It was just after 2 AM when we heard it—the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. We both rushed to the window. A convoy of three black SUVs was pulling up to the entrance. Men in dark suits began to get out, their movements sharp and efficient. My eyes scanned frantically, searching for him. And then I saw him, stepping out of the second vehicle. He was alive. He was standing. He was walking. A wave of relief so powerful it almost buckled my knees washed over me. But as he stepped into the light of the portico, I saw that something was wrong.
He was limping, just slightly. There was a dark stain of blood spreading across his white shirt, and Marco was at his side, supporting his arm. My heart clenched in a vice of fear.
"He's hurt," I breathed. I turned and ran from the room, Isabella right behind me.
A guard tried to stop me at the top of the stairs. "Ma'am, please—"
I pushed past him, my voice fierce. "That's my husband."
I flew down the stairs just as he was walking through the front door. He saw me and stopped, his face a grim mask of pain and exhaustion. "Ella. I told you to stay in your room."
I didn't care about his orders. I rushed to his side, my eyes fixed on the blood. "You're hurt." I reached out to touch his arm, and he winced. I could see the blood on his knuckles, dark and stark against his pale skin.
"I'm fine," he insisted, his voice strained.
"You are not fine. You're bleeding." I looked at Marco, my eyes demanding an answer. "What happened?"
"Victor Conti won't be a problem for you anymore," Marco said, his tone final. He didn't need to elaborate. "The boss took a hit, but it's superficial."
"I said I'm fine," Dante repeated, but he swayed on his feet, his face ashen.
"You need a doctor."
"I need a drink," he growled, trying to pull away from Marco. He stumbled, and I was there, catching him, my smaller frame surprisingly steady as I took his weight.
"Let me help you," I said, my voice firm. He looked at me, surprise warring with pain in his eyes, and then he seemed to resign himself to it.
"Fine."
It was the first time I had ever entered his private wing. With his arm draped over my shoulders, I helped him down the hall and into his bedroom. The air smelled of him—sweat, gunpowder, blood, and that expensive cologne. The combination should have repulsed me. It didn't. I sat him on the edge of his large, unmade bed. "Where is the first aid kit?"
I found it in his massive, marble-clad bathroom and returned, kneeling on the floor in front of him. My hands were shaking, but my purpose was steady. "Show me."
He shrugged out of his ruined suit jacket. A bullet had grazed his upper arm, tearing through flesh and muscle. It wasn't deep, but it was bleeding freely. I took a deep breath and began to clean the wound, my touch as gentle as I could make it. He watched my face the entire time, his expression intense.
"You didn't have to wait up," he said, his voice a low rumble.
"Yes," I replied without looking up. "I did."
The only sound in the room was the soft dab of the antiseptic wipe against his skin. "I killed three men tonight, Ella," he said, his voice flat.
My hands paused for a fraction of a second before continuing their work. "Did you have to?" I asked quietly.
"Yes," he said, his voice raw. "They were coming for you. For Mia."
I finally looked up, meeting his gaze. "Is she safe now? Is it over?"
"Victor's operation is crippled. He'll be in hiding for months, if he's smart." His eyes darkened. "He'll know better than to ever threaten what's mine again."
I finished wrapping the bandage around his arm, my hands coming to rest on his knees. We were kneeling and sitting, a strange tableau of intimacy and violence.
"Why do you do this?" I whispered.
"Do what?"
"Protect me. Kill for me. You could have just given Victor the docks."
His uninjured hand came up, his fingers gently cupping my cheek. "No, Ella. I couldn't."
"Why not?"
His thumb stroked my skin, a feather-light touch that sent shivers through me. "You know why."
Our eyes were locked, the air thick with unspoken words. "Say it," I breathed, needing to hear it.
He hesitated, the words seeming to catch in his throat. "Because somewhere between the contract and tonight… you stopped being an obligation."
I rose up on my knees, bringing our faces level. "What am I now?"
His other hand tangled in my hair, his grip firm. "You're mine," he rasped. "Really mine." And then he pulled me to him.
His lips crashed down on mine. It wasn't a gentle, tentative exploration. It was a kiss born of desperation, of relief, of a hunger that had been simmering between us for weeks. It was raw, and it was real. My hands wound into his hair, pulling him closer as his arms wrapped around me, crushing me against his hard chest. The world, with all its rules and dangers, simply fell away.
He broke the kiss, both of us breathing hard, our foreheads resting against each other. "Ella, I'm a mess. I'm covered in blood."
"I don't care," I whispered, and kissed him again, silencing any further protests. He groaned, his resistance crumbling as he lifted me effortlessly onto his lap, my legs wrapping around his waist. He winced as my movement jostled his injured arm, and I pulled back instantly. "I'm sorry, your arm—"
A low chuckle, a rare and beautiful sound, rumbled in his chest. "Worth it." He rested his forehead against mine again. "You should go," he murmured, his voice thick with want. "Before I do something we're not ready for."
"What if I am ready?" I challenged softly.
He groaned again, a sound of pure torment. "You're killing me, Ella." He captured my lips one more time, a kiss that was slower, sweeter, and filled with a promise of things to come. Then, with a reluctance that was palpable, he set me back on my feet. "Go. Please. While I still have some control left."
I stood there, dazed, my lips swollen and tingling. At the door, I looked back. He was watching me, his eyes dark and hungry.
"Dante?"
"Yes?"
"I'm glad you came back."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "So am I." He paused. "Ella? I meant it. You're mine now. And I protect what's mine. Always."
I closed my door and leaned against it, my heart racing, my entire body trembling. I touched my lips, still tasting him. Everything had changed. The way he looked at me, the way I felt about him, the kiss that had sealed our unspoken truth. There was no going back.
I lay in bed, sleep now an impossibility for an entirely different reason. I replayed the kiss, the feel of his arms around me, the raw emotion in his voice. The monster hadn't been a monster tonight. He had been a man, wounded and vulnerable, who had gone to war for me. He was my monster. And I was completely, dangerously, irrevocably his.