CH-24

CH-24
Isabella POV

The blood trail is still warm.
It winds across the floorboards, staining the pale wood like a signature meant only for me. My chest tightens with every step I take down the hall, every beat of my heart pounding louder than my boots.
“Marco!” I shout, my voice ragged. “He’s gone—Dante’s gone!”
Marco barrels through the doorway, weapon drawn. His face twists when he sees the shattered glass, the empty bed. “They took him.”
“No.” I drop to my knees, pressing my fingers to the blood. “He wouldn’t let them. He’d fight.”
Aria appears behind me, silent and sharp like a shadow. “If Selene wanted him alive, he’s alive.”
“Alive doesn’t mean safe,” I snap.
I stand, my fists clenched. “We find him. Now.”

\=============

Two hours later.
The safehouse is chaos. Marco’s men comb every alleyway, every stretch of the eastern woods. Aria studies the city map like she’s memorizing bloodlines. But all I can do is pace, restless and feral.
The thought of Dante—bleeding, captured, at Selene’s mercy—burns me from the inside. The man who once held my heart like a weapon is now the only thing I can’t lose.
When the comms crackle with Marco’s voice, I freeze.
“Got a lead. Black van, east dock. Surveillance shows a drop-off, but no bodies.”
I don’t wait for orders. I’m already grabbing my jacket and gun. “I’m going.”
“Isabella—” Marco starts, but I cut him off with a glare.
“He’s mine to find.”

\=================

The docks. Midnight.
The place reeks of oil and salt. Crates loom like silent sentinels, the water black and unbroken beneath the pier.
I hear it before I see him.
A low groan. A cough.
Then—Dante.
He’s slumped against a crate, blood soaking the side of his shirt, but alive. Breathing. Fighting. Even half-dead, he’s the kind of man who bends the dark around him.
“Dante.” My voice cracks as I kneel beside him, my hands trembling. “Stay with me.”
His eyes flicker open, and there it is—that fire. Even now.
“You came,” he rasps.
“Of course I came.”
When I press my hands to his wound, he grabs my wrist. “Don’t cry for me, princess. I’m not done ruining you yet.”
\=========

Back at the safehouse.
I strip his blood-soaked shirt, cleaning the gash with water and trembling fingers. He doesn’t flinch. He just watches me, his gaze dark and hungry.
“You shouldn’t have come for me,” he says quietly.
“Don’t you dare,” I snap. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re not worth saving.”
His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist, pulling me closer. “I’m not. But I want you to do it anyway.”

The tension snaps like wire. I don’t know who moves first—him or me. One moment I’m cleaning his wound, the next his mouth is crushing mine, desperate and rough.
I straddle his lap, pressing him back against the bed. My hands roam his chest, tracing scars and fresh cuts. His body is heat and muscle beneath me, his pulse hammering under my palms.
“Isabella…” His voice is ragged, a growl more than a plea. “This—this is madness.”
“Then let it burn,” I whisper, sliding my hands down his torso.
He grabs my hips, pulling me tighter against him, the bulge in his sweatpants hard and insistent. I grind against him, and his breath hitches, his grip bruising my skin.
“You want to hate me,” he murmurs against my lips, “but your body knows better.”
“I hate you,” I breathe, biting his lower lip.
“Then fuck me with it.”

He flipped me, slow but unyielding, pinning me to the bed despite his injury. His body caged mine, his breath hot against my neck.

"Tell me to stop," he growled.

"No," I whispered, my body trembling with anticipation.

He tore at my shirt, baring my skin, his hands trailing fire down my sides. His mouth followed, biting just hard enough to leave marks—his marks. I arched beneath him, my nails clawing his back.

"Dante..." My voice was broken, desperate.

"Say it again," he commanded, his hand sliding between my thighs.

"Dante," I gasped, as his fingers found me—slick, wanting, betraying me completely.

We moved like enemies and lovers all at once. Every kiss was a battle, every touch a surrender. I rode him, his hands gripping my hips so tight I'd bruise, and I wanted it. I wanted him to own me, break me, because there was no safety left in this world anyway.

When I climaxed, it was violent, shuddering. He followed with a guttural curse, his face buried in my neck.

But Dante wasn't done with me yet. He flipped me onto my stomach, his fingers digging into my ass as he spread me open. I could feel his dick pressing against my pussy, slick with my juices.

"Fuck me," I begged, my voice barely above a whisper.

He obliged, thrusting into me with a force that left me gasping. I could feel him hitting my cervix with every thrust, and I knew I was close again.

As he pounded into me, his fingers found my clit, rubbing in slow, torturous circles. I could feel the pressure building, and I knew I was about to squirt.

"Cum for me," he growled, his fingers working me into a frenzy.

And I did, my body convulsing as I squirted all over his dick. He groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release.

With a final, guttural moan, he came, filling me with his cum. I could feel it dripping out of me, hot and sticky, as he collapsed on top of me.

The room smells of sex and sweat and gunpowder. 
We lay there, panting and sated, for what felt like hours.
 I lie tangled against him, my cheek on his chest, listening to the slow drum of his heart.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” I whisper.
His hand slides through my hair, slow and deliberate. “Then never leave me again.”

Before I can respond, Marco bursts into the room, face pale.
“Isabella. You need to see this.”

He tosses a phone onto the bed. A video is playing.

Selene, standing over a kneeling Aria, a gun to her head.

“Choose,” Selene says, her voice like ice. “Your lover—or your sister.”