Chapter 26 Chapter 26
Lily
The rain has turned violent, hammering down in heavy sheets now, drenching the patio tiles and darkening the skies into something that looks more like midnight than late afternoon. Still, I stay in the heated pool, submerged up to my chest as steam swirls around me. Forty-five minutes pass, and I’ve barely moved — just floating in the silence, letting the warmth soak into my bones and the sound of the rain drown out the noise inside my head.
But I’m not alone.
Dante hasn’t moved either. He’s still standing under the patio cover, watching me with a gaze that’s unreadable and yet full of something I can feel in the air between us. He’s holding a cigar now, the tip glowing orange against the grey light. Smoke curls slowly from his lips, dancing in the rain-heavy breeze. The image is almost surreal — his shirt still unbuttoned, the muscles of his chest glistening slightly from the mist, dark eyes locked on mine. He looks dangerously alluring, like a man born of shadows and desire.
A shiver runs through me — not from the cold, but from the way he’s looking at me.
The rain gets worse. Thunder rolls in the distance. I sigh softly and decide it’s time to get out. As soon as I start to move, he straightens up, flicks the cigar lightly, and grabs the towel he had hung nearby. His movements are deliberate, calm, yet every inch of him is alert.
By the time I reach the steps, he’s already there, holding the towel open.
Without a word, he wraps it around me, tucking it tightly around my shoulders. His hands linger for a second too long, warm against my chilled skin. Then he guides me back inside, his palm at the small of my back, strong and steady. He shuts the villa door behind us, cutting off the roar of the storm.
“Are you cold, sunshine?” he asks, exhaling another puff of cigar smoke that curls between us like some kind of spell.
“Not that much,” I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper. My eyes lift to his, and his are darker now — not just in color, but in intensity.
He steps closer, towering in front of me. The air shifts, growing warmer, heavier. He places the cigar down in an ashtray, then lifts one hand to my shoulder. His touch is light, like he’s asking for permission without saying a word. He doesn’t remove the towel, but his fingers reach beneath it, finding the string of my bikini top where it ties around my neck.
In one slow motion, he unties the lace, his knuckles brushing the curve of my collarbone.
“You should take a shower,” he says lowly, his voice like velvet laced with gravel. His fingers trail lightly down my arm — not to provoke, but to comfort, to soothe, to feel.
The towel clings to me, but the air feels thicker now, the moment suspended in something more than tension — it’s grief, unspoken love, and a tenderness neither of us dares name yet.
He doesn’t push further.
He just looks at me like he sees all of me — pain and all — and for the first time in weeks, I feel more alive than broken.
I step into the shower, hoping the warmth will ease the tight ache in my chest — but as soon as the icy water hits my skin, I gasp and jump back, shivering. I frown at the silver knobs, twisting them in every direction, but nothing changes. Just cold.
“Dante,” I call out, wrapping my arms around myself, water dripping down my back.
He answers almost immediately from the other room. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t turn on the hot water,” I say, my voice echoing off the tiled walls.
There’s a pause, then I hear footsteps approaching — slow, deliberate.
The door creaks open and he steps inside.
He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes find mine, then drift downward just for a second before he quickly turns his gaze to the faucet. I’m completely naked, water still clinging to my skin, my hair damp, my arms folded tightly over my chest.
His jaw tightens slightly, and he clears his throat.
“You always manage to find new ways to call me in when you’re dripping wet,” he says lightly, kneeling down by the knobs, trying to make a joke out of the tension that has thickened the air.
I watch him, unable to stop the way my heart starts pounding harder.
A few twists of his wrist and steam begins to rise. He stands again, taller than ever, his chest rising slowly with a breath. His eyes meet mine, dark and unreadable, but something softer flickers behind them — like restraint. Like need wrapped in patience.
“There,” he murmurs. “Hot.”
I don’t move. I’m still watching him. And he’s still watching me.
Then, slowly, without breaking our gaze, he turns and leaves the bathroom, pulling the door gently shut behind him.
And I’m left alone in the steam — warm now, but somehow breathless from something else entirely.
When I’m done showering, my skin warm and my heart still racing from earlier, I wrap the towel securely around my body and step out into the quiet villa. The rain is still tapping against the windows, soft and steady like a lullaby. The villa smells of cedarwood and something faintly sweet—like the cologne Dante wears.
I walk to the bedroom, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor. There’s only one bed in the room, large and covered with crisp white sheets and a thick grey throw blanket. The lights are dimmed, casting golden shadows across the walls.
Dante is already there.
He’s laying back casually against the headboard, shirt unbuttoned and his legs stretched out. His black hair is slightly tousled and his gaze is locked on me the moment I walk in. His presence fills the entire room.
“Come here,” he says, his voice low and commanding.
I hesitate for a moment, but then I walk slowly toward him.
The towel clings to me, and my damp hair falls in loose waves over my shoulder. I stop beside the bed, and he reaches up, his fingers brushing a wet strand behind my ear with a touch far too gentle for a man who looks like danger personified.
“Yes?” I ask softly, standing so close I can feel the heat of him.
His eyes roam over me—slow, unhurried.
“Why are you so sexy?” he murmurs, almost like it’s a secret meant for him alone. Then he pulls me gently by the waist and guides me onto his lap.
I settle there, my towel riding up slightly, our breaths mingling.
The rain continues outside, but in here, it’s like time has slowed, and everything in the world has narrowed down to this moment—his hands on my hips, his dark eyes on mine, and the way my heart won’t stop thudding in my chest.