Chapter 3: She Stays, She Belongs
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and irreversible. Vivi watched Dante's face for a reaction—a smile, a flinch, anything—but his features stayed carved from stone, those blue eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her feel like she was standing in a spotlight.
"I'll stay with you for now," she said again, quieter this time. "I'll be yours."
She hadn't planned to say it. The words had crawled up her throat and out of her mouth before her brain could catch up, the way most of her words did. But she didn't take them back. Didn't want to.
Dante didn't smile. Didn't thank her. Didn't do any of the things a normal person would do. He just reached for her ankle again, pulled her across the sheets, and rolled her onto her back.
"You mean that," he said. Not a question.
"I—" She swallowed. "Yeah. I mean it."
"Good." He settled between her legs, still wearing the towel from his shower, still damp and warm and smelling like soap and something underneath that was just him. "Because I don't share."
"Okay."
"I don't do casual."
"I know." She didn't know, actually, but it felt true. "I figured that out."
"Did you?"
"The way you looked at me last night. The way you touched me." She shrugged, trying for casual, landing somewhere closer to terrified. "You don't look at people you're going to forget."
"No." He pushed the t-shirt up her stomach, exposing her skin to the cool morning air. "I don't."
"So what now?"
"Now I take you again." His hand slid down her belly, fingers finding the waistband of the sweats he'd given her. "Slower this time. I want to watch your face."
"Nobody's ever—" She stopped, bit her lip.
"Ever what?"
"Nothing. Just—nobody's ever wanted to watch my face before."
"That's because you've been with boys." He tugged the sweats down her legs, tossed them aside. "I'm not a boy."
She believed him. The way he looked at her now—deliberate, patient, hungry—wasn't the way boys looked at her. Boys looked at her like she was a challenge. A conquest. Something to be won and then discarded.
Dante looked at her like she was a meal he intended to savor.
He didn't rush. That was the first thing she noticed. His hands moved over her slowly, mapping her body like he was memorizing the terrain. Down her thighs, up her ribs, across the thin skin of her collarbone. He traced the octopus tattoo on her hip, the tentacles that curled down her thigh, and she shivered.
"Tell me what you like," he said.
"I—" She faltered. "I don't know. I've never—"
"Then I'll figure it out."
His mouth found her neck. Not biting, not sucking, just pressing kisses along the column of her throat, soft and warm and maddening. She tilted her head back, giving him access, and he hummed against her skin in approval.
"Good girl," he murmured.
The words sent a jolt straight to her cunt. She didn't know why. She'd never been called that before, not in this context, not in that low, rough voice. But something about it made her hips twitch, made her breath catch.
"You like that," he said. Not a question.
"I don't—"
"You do." He kissed lower, following the curve of her shoulder. "Your body just told me."
"That's embarrassing."
"That's honest." He pulled back, looked at her. "Don't be embarrassed with me. I want to know what makes you feel good. I want you to tell me."
"I can't—that's not—" She struggled for words. "I'm not good at that. Talking during."
"You talked plenty last night."
"That was different. I was drunk."
"Then pretend you're drunk."
"I can't pretend."
"Then just relax." His hand slid between her legs, fingers finding her wet and ready. She gasped, hips bucking against his palm. "And let me make you feel good."
He worked her with his fingers first—slow circles on her clit, two fingers sliding inside her, curling up against that spot that made her see stars. She gripped the sheets, knuckles white, and tried not to make too much noise. The house was quiet. The walls were thin. Somewhere, Marco and Jules were probably sleeping off their own night, and the idea of them hearing—
"Stop thinking," Dante said.
"I'm not—"
"You are. I can see it on your face." He withdrew his fingers and she whined, actually whined, which was mortifying. "You're worried about who might hear. You're worried about what this means. You're worried about whether you're doing it right."
"That's—" She closed her eyes. "That's a lot of assumptions."
"I'm observant."
"So you keep saying."
He rolled her onto her side, settling behind her. His chest pressed against her back, his cock hard and hot against her ass. One hand slid under her arm, cupping her breast, thumb brushing her nipple. The other hand returned to her cunt, fingers sliding through her folds.
"I want you to stop thinking," he said against her ear. "I want you to feel. Can you do that for me?"
"I can try."
"Try."
She tried. Closed her eyes. Focused on the sensation of his fingers, the warmth of his body, the weight of his arm around her. It was easier like this, not facing him. Not having to see the intensity in his eyes.
His fingers found a rhythm—steady, unhurried, building her up without rushing. She could feel the pressure coiling in her belly, the tension in her thighs. Her breath came faster, shallower.
"That's it," he murmured. "Just like that."
"I'm close—"
"I know. Don't fight it."
She didn't. She let it wash over her, a wave of heat and pleasure that made her toes curl and her mouth open in a silent gasp. He worked her through it, fingers gentling as she came down, and when she finally relaxed against him, he kissed the back of her neck.
"Good," he said. "Now turn over."
She turned. Face to face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones that hadn't been there before. He looked almost human. Almost vulnerable. Almost.
"I want to watch your face," he said again. "When I'm inside you."
She nodded. Couldn't speak.
He pushed her legs apart, settled between them. His cock pressed against her entrance, hot and thick, and she braced herself for the stretch. But he didn't push in. Not yet. Just held himself there, watching her.
"I don't share," he said. "I don't do casual. If you say you're mine, you'd better mean it. Because I'll hold you to it."
"I—" Her voice cracked. "I mean it."
"We'll see." He pushed in, just the tip, and she gasped. "Because if you say you're mine, and then I find out you're not—" Another inch, slow and deliberate. "—there will be consequences."
"What kind of—" She broke off, moaning, as he sank deeper. "Oh fuck."
"The kind where I don't let you leave." He was fully inside her now, seated to the hilt, and she could feel every inch of him, the stretch and pressure and fullness. "The kind where I make sure you understand exactly who you belong to."
"Okay." She was babbling now, words spilling out of her without filter. "Okay, yeah, I understand, I get it, I'm yours, just—"
"Just what?"
"Move. Please."
He moved. Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that made her feel every inch of him. He watched her face the whole time—her eyes, her mouth, the way her breath hitched when he hit a certain spot. She wanted to look away, wanted to hide, but he caught her chin with his fingers and held her gaze.
"Don't," he said. "Don't look away."
"It's—" She swallowed. "It's intense."
"I know."
"I'm not used to—"
"I know." He thrust harder, and her sentence dissolved into a moan. "That's why I want you to watch. I want you to see who's making you feel like this."
"You're—" She grabbed his shoulders, nails digging in. "You're a lot."
"So I've been told."
He picked up the pace, hips slamming into hers, and she couldn't keep quiet anymore. The sounds spilling out of her were obscene—moans and curses and his name, over and over, like a prayer. The headboard smacked the wall in a rhythm that was probably audible down the hall, and she didn't care. Couldn't care.
"You're going to come on my cock," he growled. "While you say it again."
"Say what?"
"That you're mine."
"I'm—" She was close, so close, the pressure building again. "I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—" The orgasm hit her like a freight train, crashing through her body with a force that made her scream. Her nails raked down his back, scoring lines into his skin, and she felt him shudder above her.
"Fuck," he hissed. "That's it. That's my girl."
His rhythm turned brutal, possessive, each thrust driving her deeper into the mattress. She was oversensitive now, every nerve ending on fire, but she didn't want him to stop. Wanted him to keep going, to take what he needed, to use her until he was empty.
He came with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside her. She felt every jet of come, hot and thick, and something primal in her brain did a little flip of satisfaction. Mine, she thought. He's mine.
When he finally stilled, he didn't pull out. Just collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the sheets, his breath hot against her neck.
"You're not going anywhere," he muttered.
"I wasn't planning to."
"You weren't planning anything." His voice was rough, spent. "You never plan anything."
"Hey."
"It's not an insult." He lifted his head, looked at her. Some of the intensity had faded, replaced by something softer. Something almost tender. "It's one of the things I like about you."
"You like that I'm impulsive?"
"I like that you're honest." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "I like that you say what you mean. I like that you walked into my house like you owned it and didn't apologize for being there."
"I did apologize. Multiple times."
"Not for being there. For being yourself." He kissed her forehead. "Don't do that."
"Don't do what?"
"Apologize for being yourself."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she didn't say anything. Just lay there, pinned under him, and let the silence fill the space between them.
Eventually, he rolled off her. The loss of his weight was a relief and a disappointment at the same time. She felt empty, cold, the AC drying the sweat on her skin.
"We should shower," she said.
"You should eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat." He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Come on. I'll make you breakfast."
"You cook?"
"I can make eggs."
"That's not cooking."
"It's more than you can do."
She laughed. It surprised her, the sound bubbling up from somewhere she hadn't known was accessible. "How do you know I can't cook?"
"Can you?"
"I can make toast."
"That's not cooking."
"That's my point."
He stood, pulled on a pair of boxers from the dresser. She watched him move, the play of muscle under his skin, the scratches she'd left on his back. She felt a small pang of pride at the marks. Evidence. Proof that last night—and this morning—had actually happened.
"Come on," he said, holding out a hand. "Up."
She took his hand. Let him pull her to her feet. Her legs were shaky, her body sore in ways she wasn't used to, and she had to lean on him for a second to steady herself.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." She looked up at him. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Good." He kissed her, quick and casual, like they'd been doing this for years. "Breakfast. Then we talk."
"Talk about what?"
"About what happens next."
"What happens next?"
He didn't answer. Just led her toward the door, toward the hallway, toward the rest of the house and everything waiting outside it.
He didn't answer. Just led her toward the door, toward the hallway, toward the rest of the house and everything waiting outside it.
She was still naked. The AC raised goosebumps along her arms. She crossed them over her chest.
Dante opened a drawer, pulled out a button-down shirt. Gray cotton, worn soft at the collar. He tossed it to her.
"Put this on."
She did. The hem fell to mid-thigh. No panties, no bra, just her skin and his shirt.
"Come on." He held out his hand.
She took it. Their fingers laced together. His palm was rough in places she hadn't noticed last night.
He led her out of the bedroom. The hallway looked longer in daylight. The carpet swallowed their footsteps.
Somewhere behind a closed door, a shower ran. Marco stood at the end of the hall in a black t-shirt and jeans. He nodded at Dante, then looked at Vivi—the shirt, her bare legs—and looked away.
"Everything okay?" Dante asked.
"Yes, boss." Marco's voice was low, careful. "The guests left. Jules was looking for her."
"Later."
"Understood."
Dante didn't stop walking. He pulled her past Marco, down a staircase that curved like a ribcage. The house opened below them—marble floors, tall windows, a chandelier the size of a car.
She remembered stumbling through these rooms last night. She'd thought it was a hotel. She'd asked a bartender where the bathroom was, and he'd pointed, and she'd ended up in a hallway full of men in suits.
"You really own all this?" she asked.
"Yes."
"That's insane."
"Probably."
They reached the kitchen. Stainless steel and white marble. A stove that belonged in a restaurant. He let go of her hand, opened the fridge.
"Eggs?" he asked.
"Sure."
He took out a carton, butter, a bunch of chives. She climbed onto a stool at the island. The marble was cold under her thighs. She watched him crack eggs into a bowl, whisk them with a fork.
"You do this a lot?" she asked.
"Cook?"
"Anything."
He paused. Looked at her. "I do what needs doing."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
He melted butter in a pan. Poured in the eggs. They hissed. He stirred them slow, with a wooden spoon, like he had all the time in the world.
"You didn't have to do this," she said.
"You need to eat."
"I mean—" She gestured at the kitchen, the shirt, him. "Any of it."
He didn't look up. "You said you were mine."
"I meant it."
"Then I feed you."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she watched him cook. His hands were steady. His forearms flexed when he lifted the pan. She noticed a scar on his left wrist, thin and white, like a bracelet.
"Where'd you get that?" she asked.
"Knife."
"Accident?"
"No."
She filed that away. Added it to the list of things she didn't understand about him. The list was getting long.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She'd forgotten she had it. Jules. Three texts.
Where are you?
Are you alive?
Dante Moretti? Vivi what the fuck
She typed back: Alive. With Dante. Talk later. Then she put the phone face down.
The eggs smelled like butter and pepper. Her stomach growled loud enough for him to hear.
"Almost done," he said.
He slid the eggs onto a plate. Topped them with chives. Set the plate in front of her. No fork, just a spoon.
She picked it up. The first bite was hot and soft and salty. She closed her eyes. "Fuck, that's good."
"Told you."
She ate fast. Didn't realize how hungry she was until the plate was half empty. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her.
"You're not eating," she said.
"Not hungry."
"That's weird."
"Lots of things about me are weird."
"True."
She scraped the last of the eggs off the plate. Licked the spoon. Set it down. The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge.
She looked at him. He looked at her. Morning light lay flat on the counter. His eyes stayed on her, unblinking.
"Thank you for breakfast," she said. "What would you like to talk about?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he picked up her empty plate and set it in the sink. Ran water over it. His back was to her, the scratches she'd left still livid on his skin, and she felt a fresh flush of something between pride and mortification.
"You said something," he said. "In the bedroom."
"Which part?"
"All of it. But especially the end." He turned off the water, dried his hands on a towel. When he faced her, his expression was unreadable. "You said if I asked you not to do something, you wouldn't."
"Yeah."
"That's a big promise."
"I know."
"Do you?" He leaned against the sink, arms crossed, watching her the way he had last night—like she was something he was trying to figure out. "Because I don't make small requests."
"Neither do I."
"This isn't a game, Vivi."
"I know it's not."
He studied her for a long moment. The fridge hummed. Somewhere upstairs, a door closed. His men moving through the house, doing whatever it was they did.
"You were drunk last night," he said.
"So were you."
"I was not."
"Oh." She blinked. "Okay, that's—that's actually terrifying."
"Which part?"
"That you were fully sober and still—" She gestured vaguely at the stairs, at the bedroom, at everything. "Did all that."
"You make it sound like a crime."
"I make it sound like impressive stamina."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"I don't drink much," he said. "I need to stay sharp."
"Because of work?"
"Because of work."
She pulled her knees up onto the stool, wrapping her arms around them. The shirt rode up, exposing her thighs. She didn't try to cover herself.
"What kind of work?" she asked.
"What kind do you think?"
"I think you're some kind of criminal." She said it flat, no judgment, like she was reading off a label. "But I don't know what kind."
"Does it matter?"
"I don't know yet." She tilted her head. "Is it going to matter?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at her with those blue eyes, cold and patient, and she had the distinct feeling she was being weighed.
"Marco watched me all night," she said.
"Yes."
"Was he supposed to?"
"I told him to."
"Why?"
"Because you were a stranger in my house." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "Because you were drunk and high and wandering around like you owned the place. Because I wanted to know what you were going to do."
"And what did I do?"
"You talked to yourself. You touched everything. You asked a bartender if the art was haunted." He paused. "You ate three crab cakes off a tray without asking whose they were."
"I was hungry."
"I noticed."
She laughed. It came out before she could stop it, short and startled. He didn't laugh with her, but his eyes didn't leave her face.
"You're not scared," he said.
"Should I be?"
"Most people are."
"Most people haven't had your dick in them."
The silence that followed was sharp. She saw his jaw tighten, his eyes darken. She'd struck something—she didn't know what—but something.
"Don't say that to other people," he said.
"What, that I've had—"
"Don't talk about us like that. Like it's nothing."
"I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant." He pushed off the sink, took a step toward her. "But I don't want to hear it. Not from you. Not to anyone else."
She unfolded her legs, let them hang off the stool. He was close enough now that she could smell him—soap and coffee and something underneath that was just skin. Just him.
"Okay," she said. "I won't."
"Good."
He didn't move back. Just stood there, looming over her, and she had to crane her neck to look at him. The morning light caught the angles of his face, threw his cheekbones into sharp relief.
"Why are you still here?" she asked.
"I live here."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know." He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so gentle it made her chest ache. "I'm here because I want to be. Because I don't walk away from things I've started."
"And what have you started?"
"This." He touched her collarbone, feather-light. "You."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"Is it?"
"I'm not—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I'm not a thing you can just collect, Dante."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes." His hand moved to her jaw, tilted her face up. "That's why I don't want to collect you. I want to keep you."
Her breath caught. He said it so easily, like it was a fact, like it was already decided. She should have run. Should have jumped off the stool and grabbed her ruined dress and called Jules to come pick her up. That's what a normal person would do.
She wasn't normal. She'd known that for a long time.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"I'll stay with you for now. I'll be yours."
The words landed like stones in still water. Neither of them planned it. Neither of them expected it. But there it was, floating in the space between them, irrevocable.
Dante didn't smile. He just pulled her off the stool and onto her feet. His hands settled on her hips, steadying her.
"Say it again," he said.
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours." Her voice was stronger now. "I mean it when I said it. I don't do casual, I don't do the cheating thing, when I'm in I'm in, ride or die."
She paused. He waited.
"I don't stick around if I have to share you," she said. "I'm too possessive for that shit."
"Good."
"I have one brother. My parents are addicts." She swallowed. "So I do everything. I've always relied on me."
"I know," he said. "I can tell."
"That obvious?"
"Obvious enough."
She nodded. Didn't know what else to do with her hands, so she pressed them flat against his chest. His heartbeat was steady under her palms. Slower than hers.
"If you ask me not to do something, I won't," she said. "That's not a throwaway line. I'm not saying it to make you like me."
"I know."
"Good."
"Good," he echoed.
He kissed her. Hard this time, not soft, not gentle. His hands tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, and she gave in to it. Gave in to him. The shirt she was wearing bunched under his grip, and when he pulled away to breathe, she was already reaching for the hem.
"Upstairs," he said.
"What?"
"Upstairs. Now."
He grabbed her hand, pulled her through the kitchen. The hallway. Up the stairs, past Marco (who didn't look at them this time), down the hall. Into the bedroom.
The sheets were still ruined. The pillows scattered. The headboard still dented from where her body had hit it.