Serena woke before dawn.
For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The ceiling was unfamiliar, too high, too smooth. The air smelled faintly of clean linen and something darker beneath it, something masculine and expensive.
Then memory rushed back.
The penthouse. The city below. Dante's voice at the door. The way he had looked at her as if she were a decision, not an object.
Her heart began to pound.
She sat up slowly, pulling the sheets tighter around herself though she was fully clothed. Pale light crept through the curtains, turning the room silver-gray. Everything looked softer in daylight, less intimidating, but the weight of the night still pressed against her chest.
She hadn't left.
That realization was sobering.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, pacing once, twice, trying to shake the restless energy coursing through her. She felt exposed, even alone. More so because she wasn't alone at all.
He was here.
Somewhere beyond the door.
She took a steadying breath and unlocked it.
The penthouse was quiet. Morning light poured through the windows, illuminating the space with a calm that felt almost unreal after the intensity of the night before.
Dante stood near the windows, back to her, jacket gone now, shirt open at the collar. He looked like he hadn't slept either.
He sensed her presence immediately.
"You're awake," he said.
"Yes."
He turned slowly, gaze settling on her with the same focused intensity as before—but softened, tempered by something that hadn't been there last night.
Concern.
"Did you sleep at all?" he asked.
"A little."
"That's better than none."
She hesitated, then stepped fully into the room. "You kept your word."
Dante inclined his head slightly. "I always do."
She studied him, trying to reconcile the man in front of her with everything she feared he represented.
"You could've taken advantage," she said quietly.
"Yes," he agreed without defensiveness. "I could have."
The honesty startled her.
"But you didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
Dante was silent for a moment. "Because if this is going to happen," he said, "it will be because you choose it. Not because you were cornered."
Her throat tightened.
She walked closer, stopping a few steps away. "And if I don't choose it?"
"Then I'll let you go," he said simply.
Her heart twisted painfully at the idea.
"That's it?" she asked. "After all this?"
"Yes."
She searched his face. "You don't strike me as someone who lets go easily."
A faint smile touched his lips. "I'm not."
"Then why now?"
"Because forcing you would make you meaningless," he said. "And you are anything but that."
The words settled deep, warm and dangerous.
Serena swallowed. "I don't know how to do this."
Dante took a single step closer, slow, deliberate, stopping well within her awareness but not touching her.
"You don't have to," he said. "I'll follow your lead."
Her pulse thundered.
She lifted her hand, hesitating inches from his chest. "And if I freeze?"
"Then we stop."
"And if I change my mind?"
"We stop."
Her fingers brushed his shirt lightly.
The contact sent a sharp, undeniable jolt through her body, heat blooming where her skin met his.
Dante inhaled slowly, visibly steadying himself.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"So are you," she replied softly, surprised to realize it was true.
His jaw tightened briefly. "Yes."
That admission gave her courage.
She pressed her palm flat against his chest this time, feeling the solid warmth beneath her hand, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
"This doesn't feel like a transaction," she whispered.
"It never was," Dante said quietly.
Her brows furrowed. "Then what is it?"
"An intersection," he replied. "Between need and choice."
She looked up at him, close enough now to see the faint scar near his jaw, the tension held carefully in his eyes.
"You're dangerous," she said.
"Yes."
"And you're still letting me walk away."
"Yes."
She exhaled slowly.
Then, with a steadiness she didn't know she possessed, Serena rose onto her toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
It was brief. Tentative.
But it felt seismic.
Dante froze completely.
When she pulled back, her heart raced as she searched his face for regret, anger, anything.
Instead, she found reverence.
"Is this okay?" she asked.
"Yes," he said immediately.
She kissed him again, this time closer to his mouth, barely there, a whisper of contact.
Dante's hands remained at his sides, fists clenched, restraint evident in every line of his body.
"You don't have to hold back," she murmured.
"I do," he replied. "For you."
The tenderness of it unraveled something inside her.
She leaned into him then, resting her forehead against his chest, breathing him in. He smelled like clean soap and something deeper, darker, control wrapped around danger.
Slowly, carefully, Dante lifted his hand and placed it at her waist, giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
His touch was warm, grounding, reverent. Nothing like what she had feared. Nothing like what she'd imagined when she'd said okay.
"This isn't how I thought it would be," she admitted quietly.
"What did you expect?" he asked.
"Cold. Transactional. Empty."
Dante's thumb moved slightly against her side, sending a shiver through her. "I don't do empty."
She looked up at him. "Neither do I."
He leaned down then, giving her time, space, choice.
When their lips met, it was slow. Exploratory. A question rather than a claim.
Serena answered it.
The kiss deepened, not rushed, not consuming—just two people discovering the shape of each other's breath, the way tension could turn into something intimate instead of frightening.
When they finally pulled back, her head spun.
Dante rested his forehead against hers. "We can stop."
"I don't want to," she whispered.
"Say it clearly."
"I want this."
The words felt powerful on her tongue.
Dante nodded once, as if sealing a vow.
He guided her gently toward the sofa instead of the bedroom, grounding the moment in awareness rather than impulse. They sat together, bodies close but not tangled, breaths still unsteady.
"This changes things," she said quietly.
"Yes," Dante agreed. "It changes everything."
She looked at him then, not just at the man, but at the future implied in his gaze.
"You're not letting me go, are you?" she asked.
Dante's eyes darkened, not with possession, but with certainty.
"No," he said honestly. "But someday, if you ask me to… I will."
Her chest tightened.
She rested her head against his shoulder, unsure whether she was seeking comfort or offering it.
Outside, the city moved on, unaware that something irrevocable had begun.
Inside the penthouse, a line had been crossed, not with force or fear, but with choice.
And neither of them would ever be the same again.