Chapter 14: Chapter 14 – The Reckoning in Wine
Mya
I stand in the center of our room, the silence of the house pressing against my eardrums. Dante’s heat lingers on my hip where his hand claimed me, the phantom warmth a brutal reminder of his ownership.
Every sigh, every twitch, every indulgence, is mine to witness and interrupt. How fucking dare he order to me go take a bath?
The rage inside me isn't hot anymore. It's cold and crystalline, sharpened by the humiliation of watching that bastard cripple a man simply for looking at me. He thinks I’m a trophy whose value is measured by the violence he exerts on others.
I need a break from the constant noise in my head.
Stalking out of the bedroom and downstairs again, I turn toward the kitchen wing, my stiletto heels clicking a hard rhythm on the marble floor.
I don’t want a bath. I don’t want to go upstairs and lie rigid next to his hard, perfect, evil body. I want to burn the house down. Since arson isn't an option, I'll settle for self-destruction.
I find Magdalena tidying crystal glasses near the dining room entrance. She flinches slightly when she sees me, recognizing the storm in my eyes.
“Magdalena,” I say, my voice steady and dangerously quiet. “I need a bottle of wine. Something expensive and rare. Something red. And please, throw away the cork.”
She hesitates, eyes darting toward the corridor where Dante’s office is located.
“Now,” I order, using the icy tone I learned from him, the tone that brooks no argument. The silence that follows is my answer, and she nods curtly, disappearing quickly into the depths of the house.
She returns with a heavy, dust-covered bottle of Cabernet and a crystal glass. Perfect. I’m sure this cost more than my college tuition. Everything here is obscenely expensive and since I’m the lady of the manor, I’ll avail myself of it.
I take the bottle without a word and head for the room with the grand black piano. It feels fitting. A place of fragile beauty and dramatic black and white.
I pour the wine generously into the glass, the liquid looking dark as arterial blood. I don’t sip. I gulp. The tannin hits the back of my throat, harsh and instantaneous. It’s exactly what I need.
I drink steadily, pacing the length of the room, the alcohol working its poison quickly on my sleepless, stressed system. Each glass brings the fury closer to the surface, dissolving the calculated restraint I've fought so hard to keep.
He’ll be watching. The thought doesn't stop me. It encourages me. I look straight at a discreet camera hidden in the elaborate gold frame of a portrait. Watch this, you vile son of a bitch.
The third glass is warm in my hand. The rage is a physical thing now, heavy and throbbing, demanding release. I feel helpless, trapped by my father’s mistake, shackled by my own treacherous body that trembles with want every time Dante simply breathes near me.
I look at the glass in my hand. Expensive crystal. A symbol of everything he owns. And I hate it. I hate all of it. Not nearly as much as I hate him, but enough.
With a sudden, violent movement, I smash the glass down onto the edge of the polished ebony piano. The crystal explodes, shattering into glittering, useless shards.
A sharp, searing pain flares across my palm. It’s immediate, hot, and satisfyingly real. Blood wells up instantly, thick and dark, dripping onto the pristine white carpet under my feet.
I stare at the red pooling in the crease of my hand, mixing with the spilled wine. It’s messy, it’s stupid, but for a single, desperate moment, I feel like I’m in control again. I chose this wound.
The air shifts. I don’t even hear the door open, but I feel his presence like a drop in temperature.
Dante stands in the doorway, his storm-blue eyes studying the blood welling from my palm.
“You’re hurt,” he murmurs, his voice low and even as he walks over to me.
“Go to hell,” I spit, clutching my ruined hand closer to my chest. The wine-induced dizziness makes the room spin. It could also be blood loss, but my money’s on the wine.
He ignores the insult, walking straight to a low cabinet near the fireplace to pull out a small first-aid kit.
When he stops beside me he grips my chin gently in his unyielding grip, forcing me to look at him. His other hand reaches out and curls around my waist, steering me backward.
“Sit,” he commands.
I collapse onto the stool near the piano, the fury in me warring with the sudden fear that he might actually break my hand, punishing the disobedience of my body.
He takes my bleeding hand, turning it over. His large fingers are deft and surprisingly gentle as he cleans the laceration. The antiseptic stings, and I hiss a breath through my teeth.
“You’re cutting into valuable property, Mya,” he says, his eyes focused entirely on the wound. “This hand will wear my diamonds. It will touch my skin. It will carry my legacy. You don’t damage what is mine.”
His control is astounding. He’s not ranting. He’s lecturing. He treats the self-inflicted wound like a careless scratch on a priceless statue.
He wraps my palm with gauze, securing it with tape. The whole process takes maybe thirty seconds. His hands are strong and steady, accustomed to precision in moments of violence.
The quick efficiency of his movements doesn’t do anything to comfort me. In fact, the clinical detachment makes me shiver. This is not a husband caring for a wife. This is an owner repairing his property.
When he’s done, he looks up, meeting my eyes. He lifts my bandaged hand and brings it slowly to his lips, pressing a kiss directly onto the center of the white gauze.
“Be more careful with my most prized possession,” he whispers, the intimacy of the moment suffocating me.
That’s it. That’s the breaking point. The tenderness. The soft mouth against the bandage. The raw claim. It’s worse than violence.
My hand snaps out before my mind can process the thought, fueled by wine and sheer, blinding outrage. I try to slap him.
He’s faster. His hand shoots up, catching my wrist mid-air. His grip is iron, immovable, stopping my hand an inch from his face. Our eyes lock. His glacial blue gaze flares with something sharp and electric. I see the violence in him, raw and unconstrained, but it’s mixed with something hotter.
“I warned you about violence,” he breathes. “You don’t strike me, Mya. Not ever.”
His thumb traces a frantic, racing pulse point on my wrist. I’m trapped, held by his strength and my own chaotic need. The heat between us is instantaneous, explosive. I stop fighting the grip and start fighting the need to lean into it.
He doesn’t look away. He pulls my captured hand toward his face, not letting go. He uses my wrist to guide my bandaged palm to the side of his neck, where the dark hair meets the skin. It’s a silent, breathtaking reversal of dominance.
He lowers his head and our mouths crash together, brutal and consuming. His kiss is a declaration of war, fueled by the scotch he’s been drinking, the fury of the slap, and the pent-up denial of the last four days. His tongue plunges into my mouth, possessive and rough, tasting the wine, the lingering resentment, and the sharp copper of my own blood.
I should push him away. I should bite him again. Instead, a whimper tears through my chest, and my free hand claws its way into the short hair at the back of his head, pulling him closer, deeper. The air is thick with hate and lust, and I feel my control shatter as my tongue meets his, feeding the frenzy.
He breaks the kiss, breath heavy, his eyes darker than midnight. He doesn’t wait. His hands are everywhere, efficient, ruthless. He rips the zipper of the charcoal jumpsuit, tearing the satin obi belt loose. The expensive silk is summarily pulled from my shoulders, pooling around my waist.
He kneels before me and his mouth finds the swell of my breast, sucking hard through the lace of my bra, teeth nipping just enough to hurt, just enough to bring the pain to the pleasure. I arch my back, a guttural sound leaving my throat. He quickly unclasps the bra and throws it aside.
He circles my nipple with his tongue, drawing it deep into his mouth, alternating between hard, wet suction and gentle licks. The sensation is agonizingly sharp. I’m shaking, utterly exposed, my body humming with immediate, desperate arousal.
His hands slide down my body, finding the soft silk of my panties, pulling them down my trembling thighs. He pushes my legs wide, and I gasp, utterly shameless, utterly open to him.
He dips his head and his tongue grazes my soaked folds. A single, deliberate stroke that sends a bolt of electric fire straight through me. I’m drowning in sensation, in the sheer, overwhelming release of his attention.
He works me slowly, ruthlessly. His tongue traces the swollen, tender skin, dipping in and out, finding every desperate nerve. His fingers probe and tease my aching clit, rolling it just shy of the edge. Yes, Dante. Now. Please.
“Please,” I sob out, my hips bucking wildly against his face. “Dante, please. I need-”
He pulls away, slow and deliberate, leaving me slick, gasping, and utterly undone. The cold air hits my wet skin.
He looks up at me, his eyes burning with the same desperate heat I feel. His cock is rigid, straining against the confines of his pants, an angry, throbbing purple head visible just below his waistband.
“You’re drunk, Mya,” he says, his voice thick with need as deep as mine.
I reach for him blindly, but he catches my wrist again, holding me still.
“When you surrender to me, it won’t be because wine made you reckless. It won’t be because I left you no choice. It will be because you look at me with clear, sober eyes and tell me you need me to ruin you. You will ask for me with all your wits intact, so you can never claim limited mental acuity.”
He stands, carefully adjusting his pants, tucking his hard, aching erection deeper into his boxers. He leaves me kneeling, half-naked, trembling and raw, shattered by the denial.
He walks back to the doorway, pausing only to look over his shoulder, his eyes promising a future I’m beginning to both fear and want.
“I’ll send someone to clean up this mess. You should go to bed and sleep off your inebriation. I’m waiting for you to be sober enough to beg me properly.”
Then he’s gone. And I’m left alone in the beautiful, silent wreckage, tears of frustration on my cheeks. He wins again. But the battle is changing. The battlefield is moving from hate to pure, venomous desire.