Chapter 10 #10
Chapter 10
~ Shailyn ~
I almost fell backward from the sheer force of Dante's anger, the violence radiating off him in waves. But Dwayne's hand remained steady on my waist, keeping me upright, anchoring me when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
"Just helping out the woman, Dante," Dwayne said, his voice maddeningly calm. Like this was nothing. Like his brother wasn't two seconds away from committing murder in the middle of a corporate hallway.
But Dante wasn't buying it. His eyes darted between us, searching for something—evidence, guilt, proof of whatever betrayal he'd already convinced himself had happened. I could see the suspicion crawling across his face like a disease, twisting his features into something ugly and paranoid.
Yet when he looked at Dwayne's completely neutral expression, something shifted. Maybe he realized how crazy he'd look if he made a scene here, in front of everyone. Maybe he just didn't want to give Dwayne the satisfaction of seeing him lose control.
"I need to talk to my wife," Dante said through gritted teeth. "Privately."
I jerked, and shook my head, I wasn’t ready to face Dante, he looked like he was going to choke me again. I guess Dwayne noticed it.
Dwayne's jaw tightened, but he didn't move. "She doesn't look like she wants to go with you."
"I wasn't asking for your opinion, Dwayne." The word dripped with venom.
Dante turned to me then, and I saw the calculation in his eyes. He knew exactly how to manipulate this situation, exactly what buttons to push.
"Shailyn," he said, his voice suddenly softer, almost pleading. "Please. We need to talk. Just five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
The implication was clear: if I refused, if I made him look like the bad guy in front of Dwayne and the growing audience of office workers pretending not to watch, there would be consequences. Severe ones.
I felt Dwayne's hand tense on my waist, felt him waiting for my answer, ready to intervene if I needed him to. But what could he do, really? Dante was right—I was still his wife. And in the world we lived in, that meant something. That gave Dante rights over me, whether I wanted it or not.
"It's fine," I heard myself say, my voice barely above a whisper. I couldn't look at Dwayne. "You can... you can let me go."
Dwayne hesitated for a long moment before finally releasing me. I felt the loss of his touch immediately, felt the cold rush in where warmth had been.
"If you need anything…" Dwayne started.
"She won't be needing anything from you," Dante cut him off, already grabbing my arm and pulling me down the hallway toward his office.
I didn't resist. I knew better than to resist when Dante was like this.
The moment his office door closed behind us, the mask slipped.
Dante's hand was around my throat before I could even process what was happening. He slammed me against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs, his fingers tightening around my windpipe in a grip that was practiced, calculated—not enough to kill me, but close. So terrifyingly close.
"You think I'm stupid?" he hissed, his face inches from mine. "You think I don't see what's happening here?"
I clawed at his hand, gasping for air, trying to form words that wouldn't come.
"Stay. Away. From. Dwayne." Each word was punctuated by increased pressure. "Do you understand me? Stay the fuck away from my brother, or I swear to God, Shailyn…"
He released my throat just enough for me to suck in a desperate breath, my vision swimming with spots.
"I didn't…" I choked out. "Nothing happened…"
"I don't care!" He slammed me against the wall again. "I don't care if nothing happened. I don't care if he just looked at you wrong. You stay away from him. You don't talk to him. You don't even look at him. Do you understand?"
I nodded frantically, tears streaming down my face. Not from sadness—from pure, primal fear.
Finally, mercifully, he let go. I collapsed against the wall, one hand at my bruised throat, the other braced against the plaster to keep myself upright.
But Dante wasn't done.
Before I could catch my breath, his mouth was on mine—brutal, possessive, punishing. He kissed me like he was trying to consume me, to remind me who I belonged to. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, grabbing at my clothes.
"Dante, stop—" I tried to push him away, but he was so much stronger.
"You're mine," he growled against my lips. "You're mine, Shailyn. Mine."
He pushed me backward toward his desk, and I realized with growing horror what he intended to do. He was going to take me right here, right now, in his office where anyone could walk in. He was going to assert his ownership over me in the most primal way possible.
“You need to come back home. I miss you. I …” he took a deep breath.
Part of me, a shameful, guilty part—wanted to give in. Because wasn't this my fault? Hadn't I betrayed him first, sleeping with Dwayne in that mask club? Didn't I deserve this punishment?
But the new part of me, the part that had been slowly waking up over the past few weeks, screamed in protest. This wasn't right. This wasn't love. This was violence dressed up as passion, control disguised as desire.
Dante's hand slid up my thigh, and I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing myself for what was about to happen…
Knock knock knock.
We both froze.