Chapter 17 Jealous Fury
The new guard's mistake was smiling at Elena like she was a woman instead of Dante Valeri's untouchable property.
His second mistake was touching her arm while making a joke about the coffee she was carrying, his fingers lingering just a fraction too long. A friendly gesture in any normal context. In this context—in Dante's penthouse, with Elena wearing one of Dante's shirts, while Dante watched from across the room—it was a death sentence.
Elena saw it happen in slow motion. One moment, the guard—Marco, she thought his name was—was laughing at his own joke, young and stupidly oblivious. The next, Dante was crossing the living room with terrifying speed, violence radiating from him like heat.
"Step away from her." Dante's voice was barely above a whisper, which made it infinitely more menacing.
Marco's smile died. He dropped Elena's arm and stepped back, hands raised. "Boss, I was just—"
"Just what? Just touching what belongs to me? Just forgetting your place? Just being familiar with the woman who should be completely off-limits?"
"I didn't mean anything by it. We were just talking—"
"You don't talk to her." Dante's hand shot out, grabbing Marco's collar and slamming him against the wall hard enough that Elena heard the impact. "You don't look at her unless necessary. You don't smile at her. You sure as hell don't touch her. Understand?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry. It won't—"
Dante's fist connected with Marco's jaw before he could finish. The crack echoed through the penthouse, followed by the guard's cry of pain. Blood bloomed from his split lip.
"Dante, stop!" Elena grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back. "He didn't do anything wrong. We were just—"
"Stay out of this." Dante's voice was cold, his eyes never leaving Marco's terrified face. "This is between me and someone who needs to learn respect."
"He was being polite! Human! Not every man who talks to me is—"
"Trying to take you from me?" Dante finally looked at her, and what Elena saw in his eyes made her breath catch. Pure, primal jealousy burning so hot it was almost tangible. "Because that's what I see, Elena. Every man who looks at you, who makes you smile, who touches you—they're all trying to take what's mine."
"That's insane."
"I never claimed to be sane about you." He turned back to Marco. "Get out. You're reassigned to street patrol. And if I ever see you within ten feet of her again, I'll break more than your jaw. Capisce?"
Marco nodded frantically, stumbling toward the door while holding his bleeding face. Enzo appeared, taking in the scene with weary familiarity.
"Get him out of here," Dante ordered. "And make sure everyone knows—Elena is completely off-limits. Anyone who forgets that answers to me personally."
Enzo nodded and escorted the injured guard out, leaving Elena alone with Dante and the violence still crackling between them.
"That was completely unnecessary," Elena said, her voice shaking with anger and something more complicated. "He was being friendly. That's it. He wasn't trying to seduce me or steal me or whatever paranoid fantasy you've constructed."
"He touched you." Dante's jaw was clenched so tight Elena could see the muscle jumping. "He made you laugh. And I saw the way he looked at you—like you were available. Like you weren't already claimed."
"I'm not property to be claimed!"
"Aren't you?" He moved toward her, and Elena held her ground even as her heart hammered. "You're in my home, wearing my clothes, sleeping in my bed. You told me you loved me eight hours ago. What part of that doesn't scream 'claimed' to you?"
"The part where I'm still a person with autonomy!" Elena's frustration boiled over. "The part where other men can be polite without you losing your mind! The part where you can't just hit someone for being human around me!"
"I can." Dante's hands gripped her waist, pulling her against him. "I will. Anyone who forgets you're mine, anyone who looks at you like they have a chance—they get what Marco got. And worse, if they're stupid enough to push it."
"That's not love, Dante. That's obsession. That's—" Elena pushed against his chest, trying to create distance. "That's terrifying."
"I know." His grip didn't loosen. "I saw your face when I hit him. Saw the fear. And I should feel guilty, should be apologizing. But Cristo, Elena—all I can think about is that he touched you. That he made you smile. That for even a second, your attention was on someone who wasn't me."
"So you hurt him."
"So I reminded him of the consequences of forgetting the rules." Dante's hands tightened on her waist. "And I'd do it again. A thousand times. Because the thought of losing you, of someone taking you—it makes me violent. Makes me cruel. Makes me exactly the monster you were afraid of."
Elena's hands had stopped pushing and were now fisted in his shirt, holding on instead of escaping. "You can't do this every time someone is nice to me. I can't live in a world where human interaction gets people beaten."
"Then don't interact with them." His lips brushed her temple. "Interact with me. Talk to me. Smile at me. Save all that warmth for me, and I'll try—Cristo, I'll try so hard—to be less insane about anyone else."
"That's not a solution."
"It's the only one I have." He pulled back enough to meet her eyes. "Because I can't change this, Elena. Can't dial down the jealousy or the possessiveness or the absolute certainty that you're mine and anyone who threatens that deserves violence. It's who I am. It's how I love."
"That's not love—"
"It is for me." His hands framed her face. "Maybe it's sick. Maybe it's wrong. Maybe normal people don't feel like their chest is being ripped open when another man makes the woman they love smile. But I do. And I can either lie about it or be honest about the fact that I'm never going to be that calm, rational boyfriend who doesn't care."
Elena stared at him, seeing the raw honesty in his eyes, the self-awareness of his own toxicity mixed with complete unwillingness to change.
"I should leave. I should run as far as I can from this twisted thing."
"You should." His thumb brushed across her lower lip. "But you won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're still here. Still holding onto me. Still looking at me like—" He paused, searching her face. "Like maybe the jealousy doesn't just terrify you. Like maybe some part of you responds to it."
Elena's face burned. "I don't—"
"Don't you?" His voice dropped, becoming intimate. "When I grabbed him, when I hit him for touching you—I saw your face, Elena. Fear, yes. But something else too. Something you're not ready to admit."
"You're imagining things."
"Am I?" His hand slid into her hair, gripping gently. "Then why is your pulse racing? Why are you pressed against me instead of running? Why are you looking at me right now like you're trying to decide if you're horrified or turned on by the fact that I'd hurt someone for getting too close?"
"I'm not turned on by violence!"
"Not by violence. By being claimed so absolutely that I'd fight anyone who tried to take you. By being wanted so intensely that jealousy makes me dangerous. By knowing that in my world, you're the most precious thing that exists."
Elena's breathing had gone shallow, and she hated that he was right. Some twisted part of her had responded to his jealousy, to watching him defend his claim on her.
"This isn't healthy," she managed.
"I know." His lips brushed the corner of her mouth. "But it's ours. This twisted, obsessive, violent thing we've built. And you can pretend you don't feel it too, but we both know the truth."
"What truth?"
"That you love it. You love knowing I'd burn the world down before I let anyone else have you. You love being the center of my obsession. You love that I'm willing to be the monster everyone fears if it means keeping you."
"I love you despite those things. Not because of them."
"Liar." The word was a caress against her skin. "You love me because of them. Because I'm the first person who's looked at you and decided nothing matters more than keeping you."
The accusation hit too close. Elena pushed against his chest, needing distance. This time, Dante let her go.
"Don't psychoanalyze me. You don't get to make your jealousy into something I somehow want."
"Then tell me I'm wrong." Dante leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Tell me that when I grabbed Marco, you didn't feel a thrill. Tell me that knowing I'd hurt anyone who touched you doesn't make you feel safe. Tell me you don't understand exactly why I reacted that way."
Elena opened her mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn't come.
Because he was right. When Isabella had visited, when she'd seen another woman touch Dante, Elena had felt something dark and possessive. Had wanted to rip her away. Had wanted to mark Dante as hers.
"I hate that you're right," Elena whispered.
"I know." Dante pushed off the wall. "I hate it too. Hate that we bring out the worst in each other. But Cristo, I don't know how to be any other way."
"Me neither." Elena's admission came quietly. "And that terrifies me."
"Good." His arms wrapped around her. "Because if you weren't scared, I'd know you didn't understand what we're becoming."
They stood like that, wrapped around each other in the aftermath of jealousy and violence, both knowing they'd crossed another line.
Both willing to see where it led.
Even if it destroyed them.