Chapter 2 - Echoes in the Dark
The water had stopped dripping long ago, but the air in the bathroom remained heavy and charged. After what felt like an eternity, Dante stepped away from her touch, reaching for a thick black towel to wrap securely around his waist. He didn't dismiss her. Instead, he leaned against the marble vanity, crossing his arms over his chest, his dark gaze tracking her every panicked movement.
"You're shaking," he noted, his tone devoid of pity, yet curiously observant.
"I am not," Jamaima lied instantly, pulling her arms around herself in a defensive posture, clutching the bar of soap like a shield.
"Your hands are trembling, and you look like you're about to bolt back into a hallway where half my guards would mistake you for an intruder and put a bullet in your chest." He pushed off the counter, stepping closer, though keeping a fraction of distance between them now. "What were you really looking for, Jamaima? Because 'the library' is a terrible excuse for a girl wandering the west wing at three in the morning."
She bristled at the use of her name. Hearing it on his lips felt too intimate, too real. "I told you the truth. The house is a maze. My uncles never let me explore this side of the estate when I was growing up. They kept me locked in the east pavilion like a specimen."
Dante’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of her family. The Valenti family and the Moretti syndicate had brokered a marriage of convenience—or rather, a forced surrender disguised as an alliance—to end a three-year turf war. Jamaima was the collateral, the pure, untainted heiress handed over to the devil to seal the pact.
"Your uncles kept you ignorant," Dante said slowly. "Because ignorant girls are easier to control. But you're in my house now. Ignorance gets people killed here."
"Are you threatening me?" she challenged, a sudden flash of ancestral pride overriding her terror. She lifted her chin, staring right into his black eyes. "Because if you wanted a quiet wife who cowers in the corner, you married the wrong woman."
For a split second, a shadow of surprise crossed Dante's face. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched upward into a dangerous, predatory smirk.
"Is that right?" he murmured, closing the space between them until she could feel the heat radiating off him once more. He reached out, his long fingers gently catching a stray lock of her dark hair, tucking it behind her ear. His knuckles brushed her cheek, and her breath caught in her throat. "We'll see how long that fire lasts when the real wolves come knocking at our door."
Before she could form a retort, a sharp, muffled rap sounded at the outer heavy oak door of the suite.
Dante’s demeanor shifted instantly. The teasing, hypnotic tension vanished, replaced in a heartbeat by the cold, calculating stillness of a capo at war.
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"Stay here," he ordered in a whisper that brooked no argument.
He strode across the bathroom and out into the adjoining bedroom, leaving Jamaima alone in the fog, her pulse roaring in her ears.
