Chapter Fourty-One: Prisoner of Desire
The night after the dinner, Isabella barely spoke to Dante. She slipped into bed without looking at him, turned her back, and pulled the blanket high over her shoulder.
He watched her for a while, his hand resting on the pillow between them. Finally, he said, “You’re still angry.”
She didn’t answer.
“I saved your honor in front of everyone,” he added.
“You stabbed a man in front of everyone,” Isabella shot back, still facing the wall. “That’s not honor. That’s insanity.”
“Maybe,” Dante admitted softly. “But you’re mine. That will never be questioned now.”
She shut her eyes tight. “Goodnight, Dante.”
\---
The next morning, she avoided him. She left the room early, took breakfast with Giulia instead of at the main table, and walked the halls alone.
Giulia noticed the tension immediately. “You’re sulking,” she teased lightly over coffee.
“I am not sulking.”
“You are. What did he do this time?”
Isabella hesitated, then muttered, “He stabbed a guest’s hand into the table. For… looking at me.”
Giulia winced. “Oh. That sounds like him.”
Isabella groaned. “How do you live with a man like that?”
Giulia shrugged. “You don’t live with Dante. You survive him.”
Isabella’s fork clattered onto the plate. “I don’t want to just survive him. I want to breathe.”
Giulia leaned forward. “Then stop running. He’s like a storm—if you keep resisting, you’ll break. If you face it, you’ll see where it carries you.”
Isabella stared at her plate, hating how the words made sense.
\---
By afternoon, Dante found her in the garden, sitting on a stone bench with a book open in her lap.
“You’re hiding,” he said, walking up behind her.
“I’m reading,” she corrected.
“You’re ignoring me.”
She looked up at him. “Maybe I am.”
Dante smirked, taking the book from her hands. He tossed it onto the bench and stood over her. “Ignoring me won’t work.”
“Why? Because you’re Il Diavolo?”
“Because you want me even when you say you don’t,” he replied without hesitation.
Her cheeks heated. “You’re arrogant.”
“Maybe.” He offered his hand. “Come inside.”
“No.”
“Yes,” he said firmly, taking her wrist. “We need to talk.”
\---
Back in their room, Isabella crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “So, talk.”
Dante closed the door, his gaze steady. “Why do you fight me so much?”
“Because you treat me like property.”
“You are not property. You are mine,” he said, stepping closer.
“That’s the same thing,” she argued.
His lips curved faintly. “No. Property has no choice. You do.”
Her heart raced. “Do I? Really?”
“Yes,” Dante whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “But every time you choose to fight me, it makes me want you more.”
She swallowed hard, trying to look away, but his hand tilted her chin back.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t hide from me.”
\---
The silence between them grew heavy. Isabella felt her body betray her, leaning toward his warmth even as her mind screamed to resist.
“I won’t give in,” she whispered.
Dante’s thumb stroked her jaw. “Then fight harder.”
Her breath caught when his lips brushed hers. She pushed at his chest, but he didn’t move. Instead, he kissed her—slow, testing, deepening only when she parted her lips without realizing.
She broke away with a gasp. “Stop.”
“Say it like you mean it,” he murmured, his lips grazing her neck.
“Dante—” she warned.
“Yes?” His breath was hot against her skin.
“I said stop.” She shoved him harder this time, her pulse racing.
Finally, he stepped back, but his smile was dark, knowing. “Your body didn’t say stop.”
She glared at him, her chest rising fast. “You think you can break me down just by touching me?”
“I already have,” he said simply.
Her stomach flipped. “You’re wrong.”
“No,” he whispered, leaning close again but not touching her. “You’re already mine, Isabella. Even when you say no.”
\---
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling while Dante read on his side of the bed. She refused to turn toward him, but her skin still burned where his lips had touched her.
He glanced at her, smirking faintly. “You’ll come to me.”
She turned sharply. “In your dreams.”
“Every night,” he said, closing his book.
She rolled her eyes and pulled the blanket over her head, but her heart wouldn’t slow.