Chapter 6 Broken Oaths and Open Thighs

The city didn't sleep.

Neither did they.

The kitchen was wrecked. The wine was forgotten. Her dress hung halfway down her thighs, ripped at the seam. Dante stood between her legs, bare chest heaving, hair a mess of sin and sweat. One of his hands gripped the edge of the counter beside her. The other was still tangled in her hair.

Outside, the storm had passed.

But inside them, it was just beginning.

Selene stared at him-his tattoos inked like confessions across skin forged in fire, his pupils blown wide with hunger.

"You're dangerous," she whispered.

He smirked, dragging a knuckle along her throat. "You're the one who kissed me."

"You didn't stop me."

"I never stop what I want."

And he wanted her.

Not for the favor.

Not for her name.

Not for vengeance.

For the way she bled pain and fire in the same breath.

Then, softly, as if it cost him:

"I should have let you go after your father died. I was clean then."

"Clean?" she laughed bitterly. "You've got blood in your smile."

"Exactly. And now you've got it on your lips."

He kissed her again-rougher this time, desperate. His hands slid down her thighs, lifting her with ease. She wrapped her legs around him, moaning into his mouth, her fingers dragging down his back, raking lines through the scars.

There was no room for hesitation now.

Only raw, aching need.

---

The bedroom was carnage.

He threw her onto the bed like she was both sacred and filthy. She pulled him down with her, mouth hot, body begging.

He licked the corner of her lips like he was tasting her soul. "You sure, princess?"

"I've never been sure of anything," she whispered, "until you."

That broke something in him.

His mouth found her collarbone, then lower, kissing the bruises her ex left as if rewriting them. His fingers slid beneath her lace-slow, deliberate, relentless.

"You're soaked," he growled. "From fear... or me?"

"Both," she gasped.

He didn't stop.

And when she shattered beneath his tongue-arching, crying out, fingers locked in his hair-Dante whispered, "Good. Let them both destroy you."

---

They didn't sleep.

They devoured.

Over and over-on the bed, the windowpane, against the cold mirror.

Her body was poetry.

His was a war.

Together, they were a massacre of pleasure and pain.

---

Hours later, silence.

Selene lay curled beneath black silk sheets, skin damp and flushed. Dante sat at the edge of the bed, smoking, his back to her, muscles tense like he was already regretting it.

"You're thinking too loud," she murmured.

He didn't answer.

"I'm not asking you to save me," she added.

He turned halfway. "That's the problem. You should be."

"No. I want to burn the whole damn world, not be rescued from it."

A flicker of approval passed his eyes. "Then we do it my way."

"I'm listening."

"You stay by my side. You learn everything-guns, money, secrets. No crying. No fear. No trust unless I say so."

She smirked. "Anything else?"

"No falling in love with me."

That silenced her.

He stubbed the cigarette out and climbed back into bed, hovering above her. "Because I don't do love, Selene."

She didn't look away. "That's fine. I don't believe in it anyway."

Lies.

But neither of them wanted the truth yet.

---

Elsewhere.

In a smoky backroom across the city, a man watched a video feed on loop-grainy black-and-white footage from outside the gala.

The moment the three attackers struck.

The moment Dante killed them.

The moment Selene stood behind him-untouched.

"She's with Moretti now," said a voice from the shadows.

"Good," said the man in the chair. "Let her get comfortable."

"Why?"

"Because it's easier to bury someone when they're sleeping beside the devil."

---

Back in the penthouse.

Dante lay beside her now, shirtless, body relaxed-but his hand never strayed far from the gun on the nightstand.

Selene traced the scar on his chest. "How did you get this one?"

He didn't look at her. "I was sixteen. Stealing pills from a dealer who thought he was God. Your father showed up before I bled out."

"Why?"

"Because he saw something in me," Dante whispered. "And I owed him for it."

She kissed the scar, then his mouth.

"You don't owe him anymore."

"I know," Dante said, gripping her hips. "But I owe you now. For making me feel again."

She wrapped her arms around him. "Then pay in full."

And he did.

Again.

And again.