Chapter Twenty-Seven - Shower and no chains

There’s a knock at the door.

I’m already facing it when it opens.

Rocco steps in first, followed by a woman who immediately changes the temperature of the room—and several of Dante’s men hauling duffel bags. Not small ones. Big, overstuffed, weapons-grade bags.

My eyes flick over them automatically.

Clothes, I think.

Probably.

The woman doesn’t wait for introductions.

She snaps her fingers once, sharp and decisive. “Out. All of you.”

The men hesitate for exactly half a second.

Then they’re gone.

The door closes behind them, leaving just the three of us and a small mountain of bags.

Rocco clears his throat. “I’ll—uh—wait outside.”

She waves him off without looking. “Good.”

Rocco gives me an apologetic glance and disappears.

The woman turns to me and finally smiles.

Not fake.

Not cruel.

Curious.

“I’m Danika,” she says. “Dante’s sister.”

That explains… a lot.

She looks me up and down slowly, thoughtfully—like I’m a project instead of a threat.

Then she wrinkles her nose.

“Oh,” she says. “You have incredible bone structure.”

I blink. “Thank you?”

“But absolutely no fashion sense,” she finishes briskly.

I snort before I can stop myself. “That’s not mine.”

Her brows lift. “Not yours?”

“The dress,” I clarify. “Your brother gave it to me.”

She bursts out laughing.

“Oh, of course he did.”

I fold my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she says, still smiling, “that my brother has many talents. Dressing women is not one of them.”

She gestures vaguely at the clothes I’m wearing. “Functional. Intimidating. Zero personality.”

“That tracks,” I mutter.

Danika’s eyes sparkle. “I already like you.”

She claps her hands together once. “Alright. First things first—why don’t you shower and get properly cleaned up?”

My instincts prickle. Old habits die hard.

“And then?” I ask.

“Then,” she says sweetly, motioning to the bags, “I show you everything I brought.”

I glance at the pile.

“That’s… a lot.”

She grins. “You’re going to be here a while.”

Something about the way she says it—confident, unapologetic—makes my chest loosen just a fraction.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” she adds. “Take your time. Towels are fresh.”

I nod once. “Thank you.”

She pauses, studying me.

“You’re welcome,” she says. “And for the record? I don’t think you’re what everyone says you are.”

I meet her gaze. “Neither am I.”

Her smile widens. “Good. This is going to be fun.”

She turns away, already rummaging through the bags as I head toward the bathroom.

For the first time since arriving in this house, I feel something unexpected curl in my chest.

Not safety.

Not trust.

But possibility.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

The water is hot.

Not warm.

Hot enough that steam curls around me, clinging to my skin like a second layer. I let my head fall forward and brace my hands against the tile, breathing slowly as the heat works its way into muscles I didn’t realize were still tense.

For the first time since I was dragged into this house, I’m alone.

No chains.

No eyes.

No orders.

And that’s when it hits me.

Low.

Unexpected.

A tight, coiling sensation deep in my stomach that has nothing to do with fear or adrenaline.

I freeze.

What the hell—

The memory comes uninvited.

The shower.

Dante’s hands in my hair.

The way he’d been close without touching me that way.

The cuffs.

The heat.

The restraint.

My breath stutters.

I shove the thought down hard.

No.

Not now.

Not ever.

I straighten and force myself to focus on the present—the soap, the water, the simple act of washing blood and sweat and residue of someone else’s war off my skin. I scrub until the sensation dulls, until my thoughts are quiet again.

Control.

Always control.

When I’m done, I wrap myself in a thick robe and twist my hair into a towel. I feel… lighter. Cleaner. Sharper.

Ready.

I open the bathroom door—

—and nearly collide with Marco.

He looks like he’s about to knock.

When he sees me, he jumps back at least three feet, like I’ve just pulled a weapon on him.

“Jesus—” he mutters, hands up instinctively.

I arch a brow. “Relax. I’m not armed.”

He swallows. “Right. Sorry.”

I don’t say anything else. I just step around him, giving him a wide berth, and walk down the hall toward my new room.

I feel his eyes on my back the entire time.

Let him watch.

I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a second, exhaling slowly.

My body is clean.

My mind is steady again.

And whatever that moment in the shower was—

I’ve buried it.

For now.