Chapter 4 The kiss
The SUV rolled through the estate gates like a black ghost, headlights cutting sharp across the snow-dusted driveway. The silence inside the vehicle was thicker than the December night. Dante’s hand hadn’t left my knee the entire drive—warm, heavy, possessive. Every few seconds his thumb moved in a slow, absent circle, like he was reminding himself I was still there. Still breathing. Still his to protect.
I stared out the window, the city lights smearing into streaks. My arm throbbed under the makeshift bandage—his handkerchief, now stained crimson—but the pain felt distant compared to the storm inside my chest. That almost-kiss. His thumb on my lips. The way his eyes had darkened, like he was fighting a war with himself.
The car stopped at the front entrance. Marco opened my door first, then Dante’s. No words. Just the crunch of boots on gravel as Dante guided me inside with a hand at the small of my back—firm, unyielding. The foyer was dim, only the chandelier on low, casting long shadows across the marble.
Maria appeared at the top of the stairs, face pale, hands clasped tight.
“Mr. Dante—Liliana! Oh God, the blood—”
“She’s fine,” Dante cut in, voice clipped. “Just a graze. Get the first-aid kit. Master bathroom, now.”
Maria nodded and disappeared down the hall.
Dante didn’t stop. He steered me up the stairs, past my room, straight to his suite at the end of the corridor. I’d never been in here before—not like this. The door was heavy oak, carved with subtle patterns that screamed old money and older secrets. Inside, the space was dark and masculine: charcoal walls, king-sized bed with black linens, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the frozen gardens, a leather armchair by the fireplace that still glowed with dying embers.
He flicked on the bathroom light—bright, clinical. Marble everywhere, double vanity, massive glass shower. He lifted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing, then stepped between my legs to face me.
“Stay,” he ordered.
I didn’t argue. Couldn’t. My dress was ruined—red fabric torn at the shoulder, blood blooming across the silk like spilled wine. My skin prickled under his scrutiny.
He wet a washcloth under the tap, wrung it out, and pressed it to my arm without asking. I hissed at the sting.
“Hold still.”
His hands were steady now, the earlier shake gone. Professional. But his jaw was locked, eyes fixed on the wound like it personally offended him.
“You could’ve died tonight,” he said quietly. Too quietly.
“I know.”
“You were dancing with him like you didn’t have a care in the world. Like the Rossis weren’t still out there. Like I hadn’t spent four years making sure no one touched you.”
I swallowed. “I was trying to live, Dante. Just for one night.”
He looked up then. Gray eyes stormy. “And I was trying to keep you breathing.”
The words hung between us. Maria knocked softly, set the full first-aid kit on the counter, and slipped out without a word.
Dante opened it, pulled out antiseptic, gauze, tape. He cleaned the graze properly—long, careful strokes. The cut wasn’t deep, just ugly. A thin line of fire across my upper arm.
“You didn’t have to shove him like that,” I said. “Jamal. He was helping me.”
Dante’s hands paused. “He had his hands on you.”
“We were dancing.”
“You let him.”
The accusation landed like a slap. I stared at him. “And if I had let him do more? Kiss me? Take me home? What then?”
Something dangerous flickered across his face. He leaned in closer—close enough that I could smell the faint smoke on his shirt, the sharp edge of his cologne. His voice dropped to a growl.
“Then I’d have killed him.”
The words should’ve scared me. They didn’t.
Instead, heat pooled low in my belly. Wrong. So wrong.
“You don’t own me, Dante.”
His hand slid up from my arm to cup the side of my neck—thumb brushing my pulse. “I promised your father I’d keep you safe. That means no one touches you. No one gets close. No one takes what’s mine to protect.”
The word hung there. Mine.
I searched his face. The lines around his eyes were deeper than I remembered. The gray at his temples more pronounced. He looked tired. Haunted.
“And what about you?” I whispered. “Do you get to touch me?”
His thumb stilled on my pulse. His breathing changed—shallower, rougher.
“Don’t,” he said. Warning. Plea.
But he didn’t move away.
I lifted my good hand, pressed it to his chest. Felt the hard thump of his heart under the black shirt. “You almost kissed me in the car.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because once I start…” He closed his eyes for a second. “I won’t stop.”
The confession cracked something open inside me.
I leaned forward—just enough. My lips brushed his jaw. Soft. Testing.
He sucked in a breath. His hand tightened on my neck—not hurting, holding.
“Liliana…” My name was a warning again, but it sounded more like surrender.
I tilted my head. Our mouths were inches apart. I could feel his breath on my lips.
Then he kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. It was hunger. Years of restraint snapping like a taut wire. His mouth claimed mine—hard, desperate, tongue sweeping in like he’d been starving for this. I gasped into it, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.
He stepped between my thighs fully, hands sliding to my hips, lifting me against him. The counter was cold against my skin, but his body was fire. One hand moved up my back, fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head so he could deepen the kiss.
I moaned—soft, involuntary. He growled in response, nipping my bottom lip.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine.
“This is wrong,” he rasped.
“I know.”
He kissed me again—slower this time. Lingering. Like he was memorizing the taste of me.
Then he broke away, stepped back. Hands shaking as he ran them through his hair.
“We can’t.”
“Dante—”
“Not tonight.” His voice cracked. “You’re hurt. You’re shaken. And I… I need to think.”
He turned, braced his hands on the opposite counter, shoulders tight. “Go to your room. Get some rest.”
I slid off the counter, legs unsteady. The graze on my arm was already bandaged—perfect, neat. He’d taken care of it without me even noticing.
I paused at the door. “This isn’t over.”
He didn’t turn around. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”
I walked back to my room in a daze. The house was silent. Snow fell outside the windows.
I touched my lips. Still tingling.
And for the first time since I’d come home, the estate didn’t feel like a prison.
It felt like a cage we were both trapped in—together.