Chapter 2

"That's mine," I said, my voice strained.

"Really?" Dante lifted the ring into the light.

Inside, a tiny inscription read: [My blood, my glory.]

"The Castellan family heir's signet ring. It was stolen from me seven years ago in an abandoned church in Bramsen. And you, Miss Monroe, started wearing it right after," Dante said, his voice cool and sharp.

The room was dead silent. Every eye was fixed on me.

"I found it by chance," I said, my nails digging into my palm. "At a flea market."

"What a coincidence," Dante said, stepping right up to me. He was so tall that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "Was that flea market just happen to be right next to St. Mary's Church?

"Wasn't there a shootout on a rainy night in November, seven years ago? And wasn't I the one who got three shots, lying in a pool of blood, only to wake up and find my ring gone, but my wounds bandaged by a girl who ripped her dress to patch me up?"

With every word, he moved closer until my back was pressed against the door.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, turning my face away, trying to keep my voice steady.

Dante tilted my chin up, forcing me to face him. His fingertips were scorching.

"You don't know?" he murmured, his voice so low only the two of us could hear. "Do you remember that girl with eyes that lit up the darkness? Her fingers were icy cold.

"When they touched me, I thought if I made it out alive, I'd have to find her. And then..." His thumb brushed over my lower lip. "She tested my forehead with her lips to see if I was burning up."

My breath stalled.

I recalled that rainy night, the damp, musty air, and blood. His skin was blazing hot. I tore my uniform skirt into strips. Sirens echoed in the distance, and I was terrified. I pressed my forehead to his, desperate to check if he was burning up.

"You..." My voice came out rough.

"I've been searching for you for four years," Dante said. "Until my men told me a Monroe girl was wearing my ring."

He released my chin, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, cupping my head. The move was so intimate that it felt like he was about to kiss me.

"Now," he said, his breath warm against my lips, "are you still going to pretend you don't know?"

I closed my eyes.

Memories flooded in, breaking through like a dam. Seventeen years old, I skipped class, lost in the pouring rain. The sharp scent of blood inside the church, his ghostly pale face, his curls stuck to his forehead, and his deep eyes all came to life. I tore my skirt with trembling hands, and he grabbed my wrist. His grip was so strong.

"Don't be afraid," he said softly. "I won't hurt you."

Then he blacked out. I slipped the ring off his finger. It was so loose that it could've fallen off at any moment. I put it on a chain around my neck, thinking that if he survived, maybe I could give it back to him.

I opened my eyes.

Dante's face was barely an inch away. His lashes were long, his nose was straight as a sculpture, and his lips were sharply defined. They were slightly pursed, like he was holding something back.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked. "Why didn't you come for me all those years, and instead use a contract to force me into marriage?"

"Because four years ago, there were knives under my throne," Dante said, his voice dropping low. That controlling arrogance was gone, replaced by something weary.

"The Castellan family was fractured from within, and six rival gangs were waiting to devour me. If I'd come for you then, you would've been my weakness. They would've cut you to pieces to threaten me."

His thumb traced the sensitive spot behind my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

"So I waited," he said. "Until every enemy was buried, until no one dared to challenge me. And then I heard your family planned to marry you off to some banker for a loan."

He flashed a cold smile.

"So I told your father I'd pay him double. The only condition is you marry me," Dante said, his voice low and dangerous.

"You never even bothered to ask if I wanted any of this," I said, unsure if I should scream or just fall apart.

"I did ask," Dante replied. "Seven years ago, in that church. I came to for a second and saw your face. I told you to wait for me. And you nodded."

I went completely still.

I honestly couldn't remember a bit. That night, I was so scared that I might've nodded without even realizing it. Maybe I was just crying my eyes out.

"That doesn't count," I said.

"It does to me," Dante said, tightening his hold and pulling me even closer. "Ava Monroe, you promised you'd wait for me. Now, I'm here to make good on that promise."

I should've pushed him away. I should've slapped him. I should've called him crazy, controlling, arrogant—anything to break the spell.

But I didn't.

Because deep in his eyes, beneath all that cold darkness, I saw something else. It was raw desperation, almost fragile. It was as if a man lost in the desert finally saw an oasis, but scared it would vanish the second he reached for it.

"You're such a jerk," I whispered.

"I know," Dante said, "but I'm your jerk."

Then he kissed me.

It wasn't gentle or tentative. It was a raw, undeniable conquest.

His lips were blazing hot, tasting of whiskey and coffee. Prying my mouth open, as his tongue invaded, relentless and unstoppable.

I gasped, my fingers grabbing at his suit, crushing the pricey wool in my fist without even thinking.

There were shocked murmurs and the sound of chairs scraping back around me, but it all faded into nothing. I couldn't hear a thing.

My world shrank to just this kiss, his scent, and his arm locked around my waist. It was so tight that it felt like he wanted to make me a part of him.

When he finally let go, my lips were numb, and I could barely catch my breath.

"The contract stands," Dante announced, his voice ringing out across the room, his gaze never leaving me. "But there's one change: it's not the Monroe family selling their daughter to me. It's me, Dante Castellan, claiming Ava Monroe as my bride. The wedding's next Saturday. If anyone's got a problem with that..."

He scanned the room, and every person he met with his eyes dropped their gaze.

He added, "You can stand up now."

No one moved.

Dante nodded with satisfaction, then claimed my hand, locking our fingers together.

"Now," he said, "my fiancée and I are going to get some real food. The chef here should probably be fired."

He led me toward the door. As we passed my father, he started to speak, but one look from Dante made him snap his mouth shut.

"Dad's loan..." I whispered.

"It's already taken care of," Dante said, not even glancing back. "Just think of it as our wedding gift."

We stepped out of the private room and into the hushed restaurant. Everyone pretended not to see us, but their stares followed us, spotlighting every move.

At the entrance, a black Cadillac Escalade waited at the curb. The bodyguard opened the door.

Dante helped me into the car. His hand shielded my head from the doorframe. Then he got in after me. The door shut, sealing us off from the world outside behind the soundproof glass.

The car smoothly merged into the traffic.

I leaned back in the leather seat, watching the city rush by outside the window.

Neon lights started to light up, dusk edging the skyscrapers in gold. Everything felt like some surreal dream.

"Do you regret it?" Dante asked.

I turned to look at him. He'd loosened his tie and popped open the top two buttons of his shirt, his Adam's apple moving as he swallowed. His profile looked razor-sharp in the dim light.

"What if I said I did?" I asked.

"Too late," he said, reaching out and brushing my lower lip with his thumb, wiping away the lipstick he'd smeared. "You turned me on, Ava. Now you have to finish what you started."

His hand traced down from my chin to my neck, stopping at my collarbone. His fingertips pressed right over the spot where his ring used to be.

"And," he murmured, his eyes impossible to read, "you've been holding onto what's mine for seven years. Time you paid up with interest."

The car turned onto a private driveway, and two massive iron gates glided open with deliberate grandeur.

We had arrived at Castellan Manor.