Novel & Cerita In The Hand Of Dante Book

I felt the child in my womb pull back, preparing for the final extraction—the moment where she would tear herself out of my body and leave me to dissolve into the silver mist as a discarded shell. "She thinks she’s the only one who can write an ending," Dante growled, his iron wings snapping open with a sound like two cargo containers slamming together. He didn't look up at the fist; he looked down at the rusted steering column embedded in the tile. "Zora... the 'Handshake.' The real one." "The grounding rod," I whispered, understanding hitting me like a lightning bolt. We didn't try to fight the golden hand. We didn't try to stop the format.

“Take her, Dante! Now!” Before I could scream, a hand clamped onto my arm. Dante. The man who smiled. “Let go of me!” I snapped, struggling against his iron grip. “Not happening, mi tesoro,” he said, his voice stripped of all humor. “If they get you, we all burn. Move!” He yanked me forward, and we ran. We ran through the labyrinth of gold and marble as the house screamed around us. Every few seconds, the sound of glass shattering or wood splintering reached us.

And then I saw a shadow moving in the mouth of the tunnel. ​It was a hand. A blood-stained hand, gripping the doorframe. ​Dante crawled out, his legs useless, his chest a mess of torn silk and raw flesh. He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. ​"Help him!" I screamed at my father. "Pull him in!" ​"There's no time!" Lorenzo shouted, trying to shove me toward the controls. "He’s a corpse already! Leave him!"

He tasted like expensive scotch and victory. ​I should have fought him. I should have pushed him away. But as his hands tangled in my hair, I realized the terrifying truth. ​I wasn't just his strategist. ​I was his drug. And he was never going to let me go. ​The elevator reached the penthouse with a soft ding. ​Dante pulled away just an inch, his eyes dark with obsession. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. He pressed it into my hand.

Dante stood in the doorway. His broad frame looked rigid, carved entirely out of cold stone. His dark hair was disheveled, and his eyes—usually burning with an unyielding, possessive heat—were hollow, bloodshot, and completely devoid of warmth. In his right hand, he held a crumbling, yellowed parchment covered in cramped, archaic symbols—a page torn from a prophecy codex that had belonged to the ancient syndicate bloodlines centuries before the city was even founded. Seraphina stood up slowly, her ice-blue eyes narrowing as she looked at him. "Dante. What is that?"

In my third year as an online relationship-advice streamer, I finally saved up enough in viewer tips to cover my boyfriend's share of our wedding funds. I went live one last time, planning to announce that I was quitting streaming for good, when a young woman sent over a hundred thousand dollars' worth of gifts to request a live call with me. "My husband is just too perfect. There are always women trying to take my place. What do I do?" The chat burst out laughing at how dramatic she sounded. I was the only one quietly celebrating. With that kind of money, Gary Litt would never have to stress over our wedding funds, a car, or a house again. She ignored the skeptics in the chat and kept

I was kicked out of the moving car without warning and sent crashing onto the ground hard. The sharp pain sent a wave of dizziness through me. Even so, I stumbled to my feet, instinctively popping my dislocated hand bones and kneecap back into place. I then slowly made my way down the familiar path I'd walked countless times before. I still needed to return to the Sanders residence to retrieve something. Compared to what I'd felt in the past three years, this little bit of pain couldn't do anything to stop me.

"Love is like a torch, burning brightly and felt deeply. But, Xander, I didn't feel your love. If I didn't feel it, it didn't exist. What's the point of talking about love now?" Why would anyone who truly loved someone repeatedly make them feel heartbroken? Natasha rushed over, shoving me. "Cynthia, you slut. How dare you speak to Xander that way?" As she pushed me, the flame, which was still flickering, burned my left hand. Before I could say anything, Xander immediately grabbed my hand, blowing on it worriedly. "Cynthia, are you okay?" He then turned to Natasha, pointing at her. "Are you crazy? Apologize to Cynthia right now!"

The oldest man in the group spoke. Dante walked towards the circle. “Kneel!”the old man said and Dante got on his knees, then the old man walked out of the circle, and the man holding the book came forward. The sacred text lay open in front of Dante — an ancient ledger bound in cracked leather. Its pages bore the ink of countless oaths, the names of those who had risen and fallen.. “Repeat after me,” the old man intoned, his voice a low rumble. For the first time, I saw Dante’s hands tremble. He was scared. He placed his hand on the ledger. The silver knife glinted, its blade etched with symbols—the head of a lion, which a dagger pierced through.

I got lost in the moment, consumed by the sensations they were arousing in my body. Finally, Dante pushed me to the and I landed with a thud, my breathing heavy. "Hands above your head." He ordered tersely and I immediately obliged, putting my hands above my head. He constrained them with one hand of his, pushing my thighs apart with his knee and settling himself between them. I struggled to force air into my lungs, the hunger in my blood feeling insatiable.