In The Hand Of Dante Book の小説・ストーリー

And the clothes she was wearing were too short to not permit a finger. Dante pressed on her ass. His cock jolted involuntarily and he stared at it, with a smile. “Little Dante is in anticipation of you sunshine…. Just as I am in anticipation of your pussy.” Elena’s face contorted into a gentle smile, she could see him, but she definitely could feel his hand against her skin. Dante trailed a finger to her wet entrance and her breath hitched. He pulled his hand out of her soaking wet cunt, taking it to his mouth and licking it off with a delighted expression.

To laugh at my predicament. With unwavering obstinacy, I locked eyes with him while drawing nearer. As if taunting the gods, he stretched out his hand, a sardonic smirk gracing his lips. Tentatively, I surrendered my hand into his massive palm, sensing Dante's presence looming behind Silvio. In an unexpected revelation, the touch sent a surge of warmth cascading down from my fingertips to my very core, prompting me to discover the iciness that had settled within my toes.

My equal. She’d expected comfort. Or pity. Or silence. But not that. Never that. Her throat ached. The fire she’d thought extinguished stirred faintly, fragile beneath the ash. She turned her hand in his, their fingers locking, steady now instead of trembling. “I don’t know if I can live with it,” she whispered. “With his blood on my hands.” “You don’t live with it,” Dante said, his voice low, his thumb brushing over her knuckles again. “You carry it. And you use it. That’s what we do.”

I'm on display, for Dante and Dante alone. He's perfectly in control until the tailor's assistant, a man in his twenties, touches me in a way Dante disapproves of. His hand lands on the curve of my butt, just checking some measurement, and Dante is up out of his chair like a shot, his hand clamping down over the young man's wrist. The assistant's eyes widen, and I can see fear blooming in them. Dante says something to him, his voice low, but I can't make out what he says.

My hands trembled as I opened the folder. Tucked inside was a faded photograph. The church, fifteen years ago. A picture of me and a little girl... but the face wasn't Sophia's. It was Isabella. The words on the back twisted in my gut like a knife: The one who really saved you was never Sophia. The memory hit me like a freight train. The rain, the fear, her small hand in mine. It was Isabella. It was always Isabella. "No... no, it can't be..." I collapsed onto the blood-stained floor.

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. “You’re right,” Dominique said, his voice low and menacing. “But since you think I’m the devil, then I’ll gladly accept the name. And you, my dear, will be known as The Devil’s Handmaiden.” My heart raced as Dominique’s words hung in the air, a dark promise that sent shivers down my spine. The reality of my situation crashed down on me with the force of a tidal wave. This wasn’t just some cruel joke or a bad dream this was my new reality. And Dominique was the one holding all the cards.

All he has to do is yield. Dante’s face remains hard as he glares at me. He snaps his sharp teeth and tries to wriggle free from my grasp. He’s defiant even as I hold his life in my hand, even as I offer him mercy. The claws ease out of my fingertips and in one swift motion I rip his heart out of his chest.

“I called you Mr Montgomery in front of Mrs Collins and she questioned me. I don’t think I can handle this any better” “Even if you kept your mouth shut, she would question you. You flinch every time I touch you” “It’s… I’m having a hard time wrapping myself up in all of this! I’m so not used to physical contact and all of this seems like a dream, I don’t know… I’m just scared I screw everything up” “We’ll have to change that, then” he stated at me briefly before gabbing my hand and pull me against his chest. I tried to avoid eye contact but his hand in my neck made me lift my head on instinct.

"You told me you were completely alone. You told me you have no one and care for no one. But you're hiding a soul in this ledger, Dante. You actually care." Dante’s hand shot out. His long, calloused fingers wrapped firmly around my jaw, tilting my head upward. He didn't squeeze—his grip was surprisingly, terrifyingly gentle—but it was unyielding. The heat of his palm burned against my skin, sending a breathless, chaotic rhythm straight to my heart.

This… Dante’s hands sliding up my sides, possessive and reverent, is like waking up after being buried alive. “Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and dark, laced with something close to awe. One big hand smooths down my spine, pressing me flatter, holding me exactly where he wants me. “My farfalla, finally where you belong. All mine again.”