The Cold Assessment

Riiiiip.

The metal teeth of the zipper parted down my spine with brutal speed.

Cold air bit into the bare skin of my back, sending a violent shiver through my ribs. The heavy boning of the corset slackened, no longer crushing my lungs, but the sudden rush of oxygen did nothing to ease the vertigo spinning in my skull.

"Don't touch me," I gasped, my hands bracing flat against the hard planes of his chest. Beneath the black dress shirt, his muscle was corded iron, hot and unyielding.

Dante didn't answer. He didn't let go.

His large hands caught the shoulders of the gown, peeling the stiff satin and Brussels lace down my arms. The sleeves fell away, pooling around my wrists. The heavy skirts dragged downward under their own weight, collapsing onto the marble floor in a crumpled heap of ivory silk and shattered pearls.

I stood trapped between his towering body and the cold pillar, wearing only a sheer lace chemise, pale silk stockings, and the crimson ruby ring biting into my finger.

Dante’s gaze tracked downward.

He didn't look at me with the sloppy, drunken hunger Arthur’s business cronies used to leer with at family dinners. His grey eyes were surgical. They took in the sharp contour of my collarbones, the jagged shadow of my ribs where months of skipping meals had carved hollows into my frame, and the dull purple bruising around my upper arms—fresh finger marks left by Arthur in the dressing room.

A muscle ticked along the hard line of Dante’s jaw. The cold detachment in his eyes fractured, replaced by an icy, lethal still.

"Your father," he said. It wasn't a question.

His thumb reached out, brushing against the mottled bruise above my right bicep. The touch was unexpectedly light, almost clinical, yet the heat of his skin seared against the ache.

"It doesn't matter," I choked out, trying to twist away. The rough stone of the pillar scraped through the chemise against my spine. "You got what you wanted. You got your Thorne collateral. Let me go."

"Nothing about this house is collateral, Eloise," Dante murmured, his hand wrapping fully around my bruised arm, holding me in place without exerting enough pressure to hurt. "Collateral is discarded when the debt is paid. You aren't going anywhere."

He stepped back, breaking the suffocating wall of his body heat.

The chill of the penthouse rushed in to fill the void. I stumbled slightly as my satin heels tangled in the fallen wedding train, catching myself against the stone pillar. My breath hitched in my throat as I crossed my arms over my chest, desperate to shield myself from his sight.

Dante turned away, entirely unbothered by my defensive crouch. He walked over to the sprawling walk-in wardrobe, pulled a heavy charcoal cashmere robe from a hanger, and tossed it toward me.

It hit my chest, thick and smelling of sandalwood, tobacco, and clean rain.

"Put it on," he ordered, not looking back as he walked toward the wet bar.

I didn't hesitate. I shoved my trembling arms into the oversized sleeves, pulling the heavy fabric tight across my body and cinching the belt until it threatened to cut me in half. The hem dragged against the floor, swallowing me whole, but the weight offered a sliver of armor against the room.

Dante picked up a linen cocktail napkin and pressed it to the hollow of his throat, wiping away the dark smear where the shears had broken his skin. He tossed the stained napkin into a brass wastebasket, picked up his half-empty tumbler of scotch, and drained it in a single swallow.

"Seven rules," Dante said, setting the glass down with a sharp clink.

I leaned against the pillar, watching him through the strands of dark hair that had slipped free of Helena's pins. "What?"

"Seven rules to survive under my roof, little wife. Memorize them now, because I don't give second chances."

He turned, leaning back against the bar, his eyes locking onto mine with the weight of an anvil.

"First: You do not look for exits. Every door, window, and service duct on floors forty-eight through fifty is wired with dual-redundant biometric sensors. The moment you step past the threshold without Marcus or myself, the building goes into tactical lockdown. You won't make it to the stairwell before you are restrained."

My jaw clenched, but I held my tongue.

"Second: Breakfast is at seven hundred hours. Dinner is at nineteen hundred. If you are not at the table, Marcus will escort you there. I don't care if you eat, but you will sit."

"You can't force me to—"

"Third," he spoke over me, voice dropping half an octave, completely silencing my protest. "You do not touch my desk, my files, or the keypad door at the end of the east gallery. Step within two paces of that room, and your privileges end."

The keypad door. The mention of it flashed across his face like a phantom scar—a fraction of a second where his cold mask slipped, revealing something raw, bleeding, and ancient.

"Fourth: You have no phone, no internet, and no contact with your parents. If Arthur or Helena attempt to reach you, their numbers will be routed directly to Marcus."

"And my grandmother?" The words ripped out of me, sharp and frantic. I pushed off the pillar, taking two steps toward him despite the fear screaming in my gut. "Arthur controls the account for Oakridge Hospice! If he doesn't pay, they throw her out! You said—"

"Oakridge was purchased by Valerius Capital at ten o'clock this morning," Dante said smoothly.

I froze. "What?"

"Arthur thinks he has leverage over you," Dante continued, his lips twitching with dark disdain. "He has nothing. Your grandmother’s care is secured under my name. The doctors answer to my payroll. Arthur Thorne can't even get past the lobby reception."

The air left my chest in a dazed, staggering breath. The noose Arthur had tightened around my throat since dawn... Dante had cut it before we even walked into the church.

Not out of mercy. Out of control. He hadn't freed me from a cage; he had simply transferred the deed to himself.

"Why?" I whispered, staring at him. "Why do all of this for a woman you don't even know?"

"I know enough," Dante said. He closed the distance between us again, his footsteps silent on the marble. He stopped six inches away, towering over me, his scent filling my senses until I couldn't think.

He reached out, his thumb hooking beneath the collar of the cashmere robe, pulling it aside just enough to expose the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered against the pale skin.

"Fifth rule: You wear the ring. Take it off, and I will have a jeweler weld it to your finger."

His thumb stroked once over my pulse, slow and deliberate.

"Sixth: When I am in this penthouse, you do not lock your door. There are no secrets between a man and his wife."

"And the seventh?" I choked out, refusing to let my eyes drop, fighting the magnetic, suffocating pull of his gaze. "What is the seventh rule, Dante?"

His fingers slid up to my chin, lifting my face until my lips were inches from his. His breath brushed across my mouth, warm and intoxicating.

"Seventh," Dante murmured, his grey eyes burning like banked coals. "You remember that your sister ran, but you stayed. You belong to me now, Eloise. Not your father. Not this city. Me. And I do not share what is mine."

He released my chin and stepped back, gesturing toward the adjoining suite.

"Sleep. Marcus will bring your wardrobe in the morning. Don't be late for breakfast."

He turned and walked toward his master suite, shutting the double mahogany doors behind him with a quiet, decisive click.

The latch turned.

I stood alone in the vast, shadowed penthouse, the heavy ruby on my hand feeling heavier than lead, staring at the darkened hallway that led to the forbidden east gallery.