Novelas y relatos de In The Hand Of Dante Book

Alessandro in charcoal grey, with his mother's silver cufflinks and the composed expression that cracked slightly at the edges when their eyes met. Dante walked the length of the aisle conscious of every step, aware of Marco on his left looking uncharacteristically soft, aware of Lucia in the second pew pressing a handkerchief to her mouth. He stopped beside Alessandro. "You're early," Alessandro said quietly. "You're nervous." "I'm not nervous." "Your left hand is shaking." Alessandro looked down. Looked back up. "I'm slightly nervous." Dante took his left hand and held it, and the shaking stopped.

he ordered quietly, leaning against the black marble altar with his powerful arms crossed. The torchlight carved sharp shadows across his face, making him look even more dangerous. More god-like. “Now.” My hands trembled as I reached under the hem of my dress. The fabric was already damp where it clung to my skin. I hooked my fingers into the soaked lace and slid them down my legs, stepping out of them carefully. The cool air kissed my bare, swollen pussy and I whimpered softly. Darius held out his hand. I placed the drenched panties in his palm like an offering.

She couldn't tell which was worse. --- Dante found the note in the trash. His blood ran cold. He recognized the handwriting immediately. His aunt's. Cold, precise, venomous. He stormed through the mansion, searching for her. He found her in the library, reading, her expression calm and unbothered. "You will not touch her again." His voice was deadly quiet. "You will not speak to her. You will not even look at her." The aunt set down her book, her smile unfazed. "Or what? You'll hurt me? Your own family?"

That's the next question. Dante is closest to me, Ryder's back almost pressing against mine, whereas Dante faces me, his hands pulled in front of his face in a protective boxing stance. Pure. Gold. Both words are marked in ink along the plane of his fists, each specifical letter designated for a knuckle, excluding his thumbs that I suppose leave a natural break between the two, oddly specific words.

Dante took one half-step forward, his voice cracking into a ragged whisper. "Liviana?" The woman stared at him, her gray eyes darting from his tactical vest to the dark scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Her lower lip began to quiver, but no words came out of her throat—only a thin, dry whimper. Then she looked past him, locking eyes with me in the doorway. Her gaze dropped to my left hand, resting against the open doorframe. The morning light caught the heavy cabochon ruby Dante had forced onto my fourth finger at the altar.

Arya Santanu's breathing was so heavy, the vapor of her breath had a very hot temperature. "Die ...." Arya Santanu moved very quickly. With one hand, the young man grabbed one of the bandit's faces. Slowly his hand turned into a demonic hand. Hot steam emerged from the cracks in his hand. The demon hand looked like flowing lava. And the lava came from his blood that changed shape. ARGH!!!

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.

His lips were warm, slightly damp, and the tenderness of the action sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. Dante felt the slight tremor in her hand, and it made his smirk deepen just a little. He didn’t rush to let go. Instead, he held her hand still, his thumb grazing lightly over her knuckles. The touch was slow, deliberate. With featherlight movements, he started tracing invisible patterns on her skin—small, lazy circles and delicate lines that made her fingers twitch.

“Actually….I didn't… well I haven't.” “You haven't what?” The title I couldn't read it, it wasn't very clear,” I said hoping I was right, it was an old book after all and there was no title on the thick back so maybe it had faded. “Really? Let me see,” he said, stretching his hand towards me. I handed him the book and he opened it to the front page. “Ooh! La Divina Commedia, it's an Italian classic…how couldn't you read this? It's very clear,” he asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

I thought Dante and I were in a good place but his refusal had taken me aback, reminding me that a fox will always be a fox no matter how much you try to tame it. Just as I reached into the drawer for a hair tie, my hand touched something foreign. I went to the socket and immediately turned on the lights. I pulled the item out of the drawer only to see that it was a small, neatly wrapped box in soft pink. My name was written across the top in what I assumed was Dante’s handwriting. My breath caught in my throat. “What is this?” I murmured to myself, hesitating. My heart pounded as I debated whether I wanted to open it. But curiosity won, and I carefully unwrapped the gift.