I shouldn’t be here.Every nerve in my body knows it.But I still walk forward, spine straight, chin up—like my legs aren’t shaking under me. The air in Dante’s office is thick with something I can’t name. Power. Memory. Whatever it is, it crawls down my skin and settles in my stomach like lead.He leans against the desk now, arms crossed, shirt still a little wrinkled from the woman he was just kissing. His eyes track me, lazy and sharp all at once—like a predator that’s already decided you’re cornered but wants to play anyway.“Didn’t realize your business meetings involved lipstick samples,” I say before I can stop myself. My voice is steady, thank God, even though my pulse is a fucking war drum.His mouth curves. “I also didn’t realize you were my new employee.”I set my folder down on the desk, aiming for calm, but my hand betrays me. It trembles. The coffee in my other hand sloshes over the rim, spilling across the desk and—of course—onto his papers.“Shit—”Before I can grab fo
The doors slide shut.The sound seals me in.The air hums with recycled cold and the faint scent of steel and cologne. Too sterile. Too quiet. The kind of silence that knows things you wish it didn’t.He’s standing there—Dante. Black suit. Blood-red eyes. A smirk that looks too familiar and too fucking dangerous for my sanity.My throat tightens. “Wow,” I blurt out, way too loudly. “Um. Small world, huh?”He doesn’t answer. Just watches me. Expression unreadable. Eyes locked on me like he’s trying to remember what I taste like.I choke out a weak laugh. “About earlier—I, uh, I call everyone ‘jerk.’ Occupational hazard.”He tilts his head slightly, a lazy curl at the corner of his mouth. “Do you, now?”Oh, perfect. I sound like a preschooler explaining why she bit someone.My fingers dig into the folder I’m holding, the paper edges biting my skin. The mirrored wall reflects us—me, a disheveled disaster; him, sin in a suit.The elevator hums upward. Floor numbers blink by in slow, taunt
“He went crazy because of you.”The words detonate inside my chest.Then everything stops moving.The café, the chatter, the hiss of milk frothing, the scrape of metal chairs—it all fades into a low, underwater hum. The smell of burnt espresso turns sour, makes my stomach lurch. My hand’s still around the cup, but I can’t feel it. My nails drag against the porcelain. It’s the only sound that exists.I try to breathe. It doesn’t work.My throat’s dry. My heart’s somewhere near my spine. “What?” It slips out cracked, barely a sound.Rafe leans back, exhaling like the truth itself hurts to say. His fingers press against the bridge of his nose. He looks older than I remember. “You left,” he says finally, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut skin. “And he looked for you everywhere, Eris. For months. He thought you were taken. Killed.”My stomach twists. “No.”“He tore the borders apart looking for your scent.”I blink. The cup trembles in my hand. My breath fogs the rim, and I watch the con
The plane lands with a groan that rattles through my bones. Tires screech and the cabin lurches forward. Seatbelts click open one after another—like little detonations snapping me out of the trance I’ve been in since I saw his eyes glow.Gold.Not amber. Not a trick of the light. Gold.His hand grips the armrest between us, veins tense, knuckles pale. He doesn’t move for a full minute, doesn’t even blink. His expression is empty—too empty—and that’s worse than anger. It’s the same look he wore before he killed a man.Then, just like that, he exhales. Calm. Collected. Unbothered.He unbuckles his belt and stands.“Told you turbulence wasn’t that bad,” he says, flashing that easy grin that could make strangers fall in love.My fingers tremble as I reach for my bag, pretending to smile. “Right. Not bad at all.”His gaze flicks to my hands. He notices the shake, I know he does, but he says nothing. He just takes the bag from me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand brush
The cabin hums like it’s breathing. A steady, low vibration that crawls up my spine and won’t let go. Everyone else is asleep—rows of heads tilted, eyes shut, mouths slightly open. The air smells like recycled air and burnt coffee of the first class aisle, but all I can taste is him.Dante.He’s sitting beside me, the divider is now open, head tipped back, lashes dark against his skin. The scar near his temple catches the dim blue light, sharp enough to make my stomach twist. He looks peaceful—almost human—and it pisses me off that even like this, he’s beautiful.His hand hangs between the seats, fingers twitching against the armrest. That hand. I can still see it in flashes—blood slick between his knuckles, gripping my skin while his teeth bared and my name tore out of his mouth like a threat.That was five years ago.Now, it just lies there. Open and relaxed.My fingers twitch before I can stop them, like something in me is stupid enough to still be drawn to him. The pull is magneti
“Who are you?”What?The air inside the cabin feels too clean, it’s far too still. It hums around me, a sterile kind of calm that only makes the panic worse. My brain can’t decide if I should run or faint or just sit down and start screaming.He’s there.Dante.Alive. Breathing. Sitting a few feet away in a damn first-class seat like a magazine model on a business trip. Shirt crisp, sleeves rolled to his elbows, expensive watch glinting under the soft cabin light. He looks exactly as the man I left to die—and not at all like him at the same time. His posture is looser and calmer, but those eyes . . . crimson under the low light, sharp and detached as they have always been. They cut straight through me before they slide away, as if I’m nothing more than cabin décor.My boarding pass trembles in my hand. My fingers are stiff, my throat feels scraped raw. I don’t even remember the movie I was watching anymore.The woman beside him—the giggly one—leans into his arm and laughs, oblivious t