Chapter 60 Seraphine
The hotel room wasn’t what I expected.
Dante opened the door and ushered me inside, and the first thing that hit me was space—real space. Warm wood floors, soft cream walls, tall windows that wrapped around the corner of the building like the room itself wanted to drink in the city. Noon sunlight poured in, bright and unapologetic, lighting up a small kitchenette with marble counters and brushed steel appliances. Beyond that, a living area with a low charcoal sofa, a glass coffee table, and a rug so plush my toes curled instinctively when I stepped onto it.
Two queen-sized beds sat farther back, perfectly made, crisp white linens untouched. And then—
The balcony.
Floor-to-ceiling glass doors opened onto it, the city stretching out below like something alive. Traffic glinted, rooftops shimmered, and the sky felt impossibly close. For a moment, I just stood there, breathing.
Safe.
That word settled in my chest before I could stop it.
I wandered the room slowly, fingertips brushing over furniture, grounding myself in the quiet. And then my stomach betrayed me.
A low, unmistakable growl.
I froze.
Dante chuckled behind me—soft, warm, amused in a way that didn’t embarrass me.
“Lunch,” he said. “Good timing.”
He was already pulling his phone out, moving like this was second nature. He didn’t ask me what I wanted. He didn’t need to.
“Room service,” he said calmly when the line connected. “For two.”
I leaned against the counter, watching him.
He ordered like he knew exactly what I needed—something light but filling, something warm. Soup. A sandwich. Fresh fruit. Sparkling water. Dessert, because of course he added dessert. His voice was low, confident, completely in control.
And I realized—surprisingly—that I didn’t mind.
Not even a little.
It was… comforting. Sexy, even. The kind of care that didn’t smother—it anticipated.
When he hung up, he turned to me. “Fifteen minutes.”
I nodded, then sank down onto the sofa, the cushions swallowing me up. The exhaustion hit me all at once, heavy and bone-deep.
“Why are we staying here tonight?” I asked quietly.
Dante didn’t answer right away. He leaned against the window instead, arms crossed, eyes on the city.
“Lucian is going to attempt to mate with Amara,” he said finally. “If she’ll have him.”
My brows shot up. “Attempt,” I repeated. “That sounds… intense.”
“It is,” he said plainly.
“Why so fast?”
He turned then, his gaze serious. “Because he’s afraid.”
That caught me off guard.
“Of what?”
“Of losing her,” Dante said. “Of the other kings seeing her as unclaimed. Of her becoming a target.”
I swallowed.
“And you?” I asked. “Do you feel the same way?”
Silence.
Not awkward. Not evasive. Just… weighted.
Dante studied me like he was measuring something important—something fragile.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I do.”
My chest tightened.
“But I won’t rush you,” he continued. “This isn’t a decision you make under pressure. Once it’s done, your life changes. Permanently. I need you to choose it—not be pushed into it.”
That meant more than he probably realized.
I hesitated, then asked the question that had been circling my mind since the meeting.
“Can I still work?” I said. “Be a journalist?”
“Yes,” he answered immediately. “I don’t mind that at all.” Then, more carefully, “I would prefer you worked for a different company.”
I huffed softly. “Figures.”
“It’s not control,” he said. “It’s protection.”
I nodded. “Do I have to go to those meetings? With the kings?”
“No,” he said. “Today was an exception. Renee is still out there. And your brother…” His jaw tightened. “That situation forced my hand.”
My stomach twisted at the reminder.
“What happens to Stephen now?” I asked. “Since I’m… this.” I gestured vaguely. “Is he dragonborn too?”
Dante shook his head. “No. Siblings don’t share it. It isn’t inherited. It happens.”
That made my breath catch.
And suddenly, everything clicked.
The room felt too quiet.
I looked down at my hands, then back up at him.
“So,” I said slowly, “if I wasn’t dragonborn—if I was just… me. Just human. This chubby, messy, ordinary woman—”
My voice wobbled, but I didn’t stop.
“You wouldn’t even think twice about dating me.”
Dante didn’t look away.
Didn’t soften it.
Didn’t lie.
“Yes,” he said.
One word. Calm. Honest. Devastating.
It sat between us like a live wire.
I stared at him, waiting—stupidly—for him to soften it. To take it back. To say but.
Something.
“If you were human,” he continued, slower now, like he could feel the ground cracking beneath me, “you would have caught my eye. I would have noticed you. Appreciated you.”
My chest tightened.
“But I wouldn’t have lost sleep over you,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t have felt this pull. This—”
He stopped himself.
Too late.
Something inside me curdled.
“Oh,” I breathed.
The room suddenly felt too bright. Too clean. Too expensive for the way my stomach rolled.
I nodded once, sharply, like I understood. Like I was fine.
“Okay,” I said, my voice sounding wrong even to my own ears. “Okay.”
I turned before he could say anything else.
I didn’t run—but I walked fast, straight into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with more force than I meant to.
The second the latch clicked, I bent over the sink.
Not to throw up.
Just to breathe.
My reflection stared back at me—eyes too bright, cheeks flushed, body soft in all the places it had always been soft.
Human soft.
Dragonborn soft.
I pressed my palms flat against the cool marble and laughed under my breath.
Of course.
Of course that was it.
I wasn’t wanted. I was activated.
I heard him outside the door.
“Seraphine,” Dante said, his voice lower now. Careful. “That isn’t what I meant.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“I didn’t say it wrong,” he continued. “I said it honestly. There’s a difference.”
“Stop,” I whispered, even though he couldn’t hear me through the door. “Please stop.”
Heat brushed against me then—gentle, coaxing. His fire reaching for mine, trying to soothe, to wrap around the ache in my chest like it always did.
I recoiled from it.
“No,” I said aloud this time. “Don’t.”
The warmth faltered.
Good.
Because suddenly everything made sense in the ugliest way.
That’s why he likes me.
Not me.
Not this body.
Not the girl who hasn’t eaten lunch and feels bloated and ugly and too much.
The dragon.
That’s why he bought the clothes.
The makeup.
Why he curated me.
Polished me.
Why he liked me better when I wasn’t facing him.
Why he touched me like something precious—but distant.
Like something powerful.
Not like someone he desired.
A sick twist curled in my gut.
His dragon wants my dragon.
Not me.