The speed-boat ride back to the island was a blur of salt spray and freezing wind. Dante didn't speak. He sat at the helm, his knuckles white as he steered the vessel through the choppy dark waters. Anna sat in the back, huddled in the emerald silk dress that felt like a shroud of her own shame.
When they reached the manor, Dante didn't wait for her. He strode toward the library, his tuxedo jacket tossed over one shoulder. Anna followed, compelled by a strange, magnetic pull of fear and adrenaline.
The library doors slammed shut behind them. The fire was low, casting a dying orange glow over the dark wood.
"Sit," Dante barked.
Anna sat at her small typing desk. She expected him to berate her. She expected him to give her another list of names to type until her eyes bled.
Instead, Dante moved toward a hidden cabinet behind his desk. He pulled out a medical kit and a bottle of high-end bourbon. He walked over to her, his shadow looming large against the bookshelves.
"Give me your arm," he commanded.
"I'm fine," Anna whispered, pulling back.
"I don't remember asking for a status report," he growled. He reached out and grabbed her wrist—the same wrist Kael had squeezed. In the light of the desk lamp, the bruises were already blooming like dark violets against her pale skin.
Dante's jaw tightened. He poured some bourbon onto a clean cloth. "This will sting."
As he pressed the cloth to the skin around the bruise, Anna hissed, her body tensing. For a moment, the toxic power dynamic shifted. He wasn't the king of the underground; he was a man focused on the damage done to something he considered his.
"You should have pushed him away," Dante said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room.
"He was twice my size, Dante! And he had guards!" Anna's voice rose, her slum-born defiance finally snapping. "You treat me like I'm a piece of paper you can just fold and put in your pocket. I am a person. I was nearly raped in an alley, I watched a man die, and now I'm a prisoner on an island where the only person I talk to is an old lady and a man who treats me like a ghost."
Dante stopped cleaning the bruise. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto hers. The "dark silence" he usually used to break people was gone, replaced by a raw, jagged intensity.
"You think you're a prisoner?" He leaned in, his face inches from hers. "You're the only person in this world who knows my face and is still breathing. That makes you a queen, Anna. A queen in a cage, perhaps, but a queen nonetheless."
His hand migrated from her wrist to the back of her neck, his large palm cupping the base of her skull. The touch was possessive, heavy, and dangerously warm.
"Kael touched you because he thought I was weak," Dante whispered, his husky voice dropping to a gravelly silk. "He thought I wouldn't protect what is mine. He won't make that mistake again. No one will."
Anna's breath hitched. The air between them was thick enough to choke on. She could see the faint scar on his upper lip, the slight stubble on his jaw. She hated him. She hated everything he stood for. But as his thumb traced the line of her jaw, she felt a traitorous jolt of electricity run down her spine.
"Is that all I am?" she asked, her voice barely a breath. "A point of pride? Property?"
Dante's gaze dropped to her lips. The "slow burn" was reaching a flashpoint. He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The way his grip tightened on her neck said more than any words could.
He abruptly let go and stood up, the mask of the cold boss sliding back into place.
"Finish the ledger from today. I want the names of every man Kael spoke to before I broke his hand. You have until dawn."
He walked to the fireplace and stood with his back to her, the firelight outlining his massive frame.
Anna turned back to the typewriter. Her hands were shaking, and the smell of his bourbon and cedarwood cologne was still clinging to her skin. She began to type, but the keys felt heavier than before.
She wasn't just typing names anymore. She was typing her own sentence.