7- Not Scared Of You

My feet moved before I could decide. One step. Then another.

Following him toward that door at the back of the club like I had any choice left in this world.

The door led to a private room. Smaller than the club outside but somehow more suffocating. Red velvet couches lined the walls. Low lighting made everything look like it was dipped in blood. The smell that hit me was suffocating. Smoke and alcohol filled most of the atmosphere and it had me choked..

I gulped and walked deeper into the room.

Dante was already relaxed on the center couch, legs spread wide like he owned not just this room but the entire world. He reached for something on the table—a silver cigarette case that caught the light when he opened it.

But I noticed something. A slight detail that didn't fit with the rest of his controlled perfection.

His hands shook as he lit the cigarette.

Just barely. Just enough that the flame wavered before catching. Then it was gone, hidden behind the smooth way he brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled.

I frowned but didn't say anything.

"You took your time," he said after dumping the lighter on the table. Smoke curled from his mouth as he spoke, making his words look poisonous. "I was beginning to think you'd try something stupid."

I stood near the door, the blood-stained fur coat suddenly feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He leaned back, studying me through the smoke. "I knew who I chose. I saw the picture they sent. The job was simple—someone to fuck and move on." He took another drag, his gray eyes never leaving mine. "But you... you are just perfect."

My stomach twisted.

"Perfect for mercy," he continued, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. "That's what your name means, doesn't it? Celeste. Heavenly. Divine." His smirk was cruel. "How fitting that heaven would deliver itself to hell."

I didn't say anything. Indeed, heaven had delivered me to hell, and unfortunately I shall remain there.

"Take off the coat," he said suddenly. "It's annoying."

I hesitated. My hands moved to the fur but stopped, trembling against the blood-stained white.

In one fluid motion, he was up. The cigarette dangling from his lips as he crossed the space between us in three long strides. His hands grabbed the coat and ripped it from my body so violently I stumbled.

The coat fell to the floor in a heap of ruined fur and blood.

"I hate delays," he said, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "I told you. You obey only. Weren't you told that before coming?"

I stood there in nothing but the white lace that covered almost nothing. My whole body wanted to curl in on itself, to hide, to disappear. But something in me—maybe the alcohol, maybe the knowledge that I was going to die anyway—refused to cower.

I lifted my chin and met his eyes.

"I was told," I said quietly. My hands were shaking but I kept them at my sides. "I was told you were rude and have no care for the women they sent to you. That you destroy the girls you like too much. That I should be grateful for the honor of serving you."

His eyebrow raised. "And?"

"And I think you're just a man who likes hurting people weaker than him," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "There's nothing special about that."

The room went deadly silent.

Then his hand shot out and wrapped around my neck. Not squeezing—not yet—but the threat was clear in the pressure of his fingers against my pulse.

"You have bite," he said softly, dangerously. The cigarette smoke curled between us. "I wasn't expecting that from someone trembling like a fish out of water."

I couldn't breathe properly but I didn't look away. If he was going to kill me, I wanted him to see that I wasn't afraid. That some part of me wanted this to end.

"Most of them cry by now," he continued, his thumb brushing against my throat. "Most of them beg. Or faint. Or break before I even touch them properly." His grip tightened slightly. "But you... you're still looking at me like you have any power here."

"I don't have power," I whispered, my voice rough against his hold. "But I'm not afraid of you."

"Liar."

"I'm not afraid of dying," I corrected. "And I know you have every intention of seeing me dead."

Something flickered in his gray eyes. Surprise maybe. Or interest. His grip loosened just enough for me to breathe easier.

"You want to die?" he asked.

I didn't answer.

"That's why you took her place," he said, more statement than question. "Not to save her. To find an excuse to end it."

Tears burned behind my eyes but I refused to let them fall. I wouldn't give him that.

"How disappointing," he murmured, his hand sliding from my neck to my jaw. "I paid for a virgin nun. What I got was a suicidal martyr." He studied my face. "Though I suppose there's something poetic about defiling someone who's already dead inside."

"Then do it," I said, surprising myself with how steady the words came out. "Do whatever you paid for and get it over with."

His smirk returned. "Oh, palomita. That's not how this works."

"Huh?"

He took the cigarette from his lips and stubbed it out on the table without looking. His other hand was still holding my jaw, keeping my face tilted up to his.

"I'm going to break you," he said simply. "Not quickly. Not, I don't do things quick. It would be slow. Careful. Until you forget you ever wanted to die." His thumb brushed across my lower lip. "Until the only thing you want is me."

"I'll never want you," I whispered.

"We'll see," he said. Then he smiled—really smiled—and it was the most terrifying thing I'd seen all night. "Strip.”