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# Chapter 5 – Valentina’s POV

The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

‘Week’s up.’

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the oversized silk pajamas Sofia brought me a few days ago which was soft, expensive, and completely useless against the chill that just crawled up my spine. My hands are clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles are white. I can’t look away from him.

Dante doesn’t move from the doorway at first. He just stands there, tall and broad, the hallway light carving sharp shadows across his face. He finishes loosening his tie with deliberate slowness, then pulls it free and tosses it onto a chair. The motion is casual, almost lazy, but there’s nothing lazy about the way his ice-blue eyes are fixed on me.

I swallow. My throat feels like sandpaper. “We could… talk about this,” I manage, hating how small my voice sounds.

He steps into the room and closes the door behind him with a soft click that somehow feels louder than a gunshot. “There’s nothing to talk about, Valentina.” His voice is low, controlled, the kind of calm that comes right before a storm breaks. “You’re my wife. This is our wedding night—delayed by seven days because I was generous.”

Generous. The word makes me want to laugh or scream or throw something. Instead, I stand up, my legs shaky. “You can’t just… force me.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying me the way a predator studies prey that’s finally stopped running. “I’m not forcing you.” He takes another step closer. “I’m reminding you of the agreement you made when you said ‘I do.’”

“I said ‘I do’ to stay alive,” I snap, the words bursting out before I can stop them. “Not to—to let you—”

He’s in front of me in two strides, so fast I barely see him move. One large hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up so I have no choice but to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, and the touch sends an unwanted spark straight through me.

“You think I don’t see the way your pulse jumps when I’m close?” he murmurs. His voice is velvet over steel. “You think I haven’t noticed how your eyes follow me when you think I’m not looking?”

Heat floods my cheeks. I jerk my head, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens, not painful, just immovable. “That’s fear,” I hiss.

“Is it?” His other hand settles on my waist, fingers splaying possessively over the silk. “Your heart is racing, little doe. But it’s not just fear, is it?”

I hate him for being right. I hate the way my body reacts to his nearness, the way the heat of his palm seeps through the thin fabric and makes my skin prickle. I hate that some traitorous part of me is curious…terrified, yes, but curious about what it would feel like to let him touch me the way his eyes promise he wants to.

“Let go of me,” I whisper.

He doesn’t. Instead, he leans down until his lips are a breath away from mine. “Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “Say it like you mean it, and I will.”

My mouth opens, but the words don’t come. Because I should mean it. I should hate him enough to scream it. But the truth is more complicated, and we both know it.

His mouth curves but it's not quite a smile, more like satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses me.

It’s not gentle. It’s not asking permission. It’s a claim, deep and demanding, his lips hard against mine, his tongue sliding in to taste me like he’s been starving for it. I make a small sound, protest or surrender, I’m not sure and his hand moves from my jaw to the back of my neck, holding me exactly where he wants me.

My hands come up instinctively, pushing at his chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall. He doesn’t budge. Instead, he walks me backward until my knees hit the bed and I sit down hard. He follows, leaning over me, never breaking the kiss.

When he finally pulls back, my lips feel swollen, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darker now, the blue almost black in the dim light.

“Take off the pajamas,” he says.

I shake my head, my voice lost somewhere in my throat.

He straightens, unbuttoning his shirt with slow, deliberate movements. Each button reveals more of his chest…tan skin, hard muscle, and scars. So many scars. Knife wounds, bullet grazes, one long jagged line across his ribs. And scattered tattoos. Evidence of the life he leads. The life I’m now part of.

The shirt drops to the floor. He reaches for his belt.

“Dante…” My voice cracks on his name.

He pauses, eyes locked on mine. “You can fight me if it makes you feel better,” he says. “But we both know how this ends tonight.”

I scramble backward on the bed, heart hammering. “I’m not ready.”

“You’ve had a week.” He steps out of his shoes, then his pants, until he’s standing there in nothing but black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how much he wants this. Wants me. “I’ve been patient.”

He climbs onto the bed, moving over me like a shadow. I try to push him away again, but he catches my wrists easily, pinning them above my head with one hand. The weight of his body settles between my thighs, and I gasp at the feel of him—hard, hot, overwhelming.

“Shh,” he murmurs against my ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

His free hand slides down my side, fingers hooking into the waistband of the pajama shorts. He tugs them down slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. I don’t. I can’t. My body is trembling, but not entirely from fear anymore.

When the shorts are gone, he releases my wrists just long enough to pull the top over my head. Then I’m naked beneath him, completely exposed, and his gaze rakes over me like fire.

“Beautiful,” he says roughly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

His mouth finds my neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to my collarbone. I arch involuntarily when his lips close over one nipple, the sensation sharp and electric. A soft moan escapes me before I can stop it, and I feel him smile against my skin.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let me hear you.”