The villa was quiet now, a deceptive calm after the storm and the morning chaos. But inside Dante's chambers, the air still crackled.
Ishani paced, fists clenched, teeth grinding, trying to shake off the lingering heat of the near kiss and the cat-and-mouse chase from breakfast. Her pulse was a drum in her ears—fast, relentless, alive.
Dante leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his smirk effortless, deadly, knowing. "Still restless?" he asked, voice low and smooth, dark velvet against the tension.
"I'm not restless," she snapped, whipping toward him. "I'm furious. And you—"
Before she could finish, he stepped closer, slow, deliberate, closing the space between them. His hand lifted, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. Ishani froze, muscles taut. His fingers lingered, brushing her jawline, tracing down to the curve of her neck.
"Dante—" she hissed, yanking backward, but he caught her wrist, holding her in place.
"Quiet," he murmured, leaning so close that his lips hovered near hers. "I want you to feel this. To know… how it is when I decide."
Her breath hitched, fury and heat tangling. Her nails sank into his chest, digging, twisting, desperate. "You—don't—you—"
He chuckled softly, eyes gleaming with amusement, not pain. "Oh, you fight beautifully." His thumb brushed her lips, deliberate, possessive. The touch was feather-light yet incendiary, a spark that seared through every nerve.
Her body betrayed her, trembling, pulse spiking, but her mind screamed. She shoved him backward with all her strength, clawing, kicking, twisting, refusing to surrender even for a second.
Dante stumbled slightly, surprised by her ferocity, then caught her by the shoulders, steadying her with ease. His lips hovered again, brushing the corner of her mouth this time—intentional, deliberate—before he pulled back, letting the tension sear.
"You're insufferable," he murmured, tone half frustration, half delight. "And I adore it."
Ishani glared, chest heaving, fists trembling from the effort and the heat of his nearness. "I'm not yours. I'll never be yours."
His thumb brushed her cheek once more, tracing the line of her jaw. "Not yet," he whispered, voice low, deliberate. "But every defiance, every fight… every moment you claw at me… makes me want you more."
Her stomach twisted. Heat, fury, and shame twisted together in a mess she couldn't control. She wanted to shove him, to scream, to run—but the power of his gaze held her like iron.
And yet, in the way her body betrayed her, trembling under his deliberate touches, she realized something terrifying: this game… wasn't just his to play anymore.
She could fight. She could strike. She could hurt him.
And she would.