Page 16 of Ruthless Desire

For a moment, I see the temptation in her eyes. The longing for everything I'm promising, everything she's ever dreamed of. But then that stubborn pride reasserts itself, hardening her gaze into chips of gray ice.

"Get out," she says again, voice steady despite the tremor in her limbs. "I'm not interested in your sick fantasies or your blood money. Find someone else to be your twisted Barbie doll."

I pull back, studying her with a mixture of admiration and frustration. She really is magnificent in her defiance, a lioness baring her teeth even as the hunter's noose tightens around her throat.

"Very well," I say, rising from the bed with fluid grace. "Have it your way, for now. But know this, Natalie Quinn – you can't run from destiny. And you are my destiny, whether you like it or not."

I move towards the door, pausing on the threshold to glance back at her. She's a vision, all tousled hair and flushed cheeks, the sheet barely preserving her modesty. It takes every ounce of my considerable willpower not to go back, to pin her to the bed and claim her the way every fiber of my being is screaming to do.

Instead, I reach into my pocket and withdraw the vibrator's charger, dangling it between my fingers with a wicked smirk. "Oh, and Natalie? You might want to invest in some batteries. I have a feeling you're going to need them in the coming days."

Her eyes widen in outrage, a string of colorful curses falling from those lush lips. But I'm already gone, melting into the shadows of the hallway with her furious imprecations ringing in my ears.

As I slide into the waiting car, I can't help the dark chuckle that escapes me. Oh, my beautiful, stubborn Natalie. You have no idea what's coming for you. The sweet torments I have planned, the exquisite agonies that await.

You think you can resist me? Think you can deny the pull between us, the inexorable gravity dragging you into my orbit?

You're only delaying the inevitable, cara mia. And when you finally surrender, when you give in to the dark destiny that binds us...

It will be glorious.

I settle back into the buttery leather seat, already plotting my next move. The pieces are in motion, the board set for our grand game of cat and mouse. And I, Dante Corleone, am nothing if not a master strategist.

Sleep well, my dark angel. Dream sweet dreams of defiance and rebellion. Because when you wake...

The real game begins.

And I play for keeps.

Chapter 7 Natalie

Ijolt awake, heart jackhammering against my ribs, Dante's phantom touch still searing my skin. His scent lingers—sandalwood, smoke, and sin—an inescapable reminder of his intrusion into my space, my life, my very soul.

The threadbare sheet tangles around my legs as I struggle to sit up, to shake off the vestiges of sleep and the dark, forbidden dreams that cling like cobwebs. Dreams of strong hands pinning me down, of cruel lips branding my flesh, of pleasure and pain entwining until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

"Fuck." The curse feels heavy on my tongue, echoing in the empty room. Empty, save for the glaring absence on my nightstand where my vibrator used to be. A parting "gift" from my demented admirer, a calling card to remind me that nowhere is safe. Not even the sanctuary of my own thoughts.

I fumble for my smokes with shaking hands, nearly dropping the lighter in my haste to bring flame to the cigarette. The first acrid inhale does little to calm my fractured nerves, but it gives me something to focus on besides the fear clawing at my insides like a rabid beast.

"Get it together, Natalie," I mutter around the filter, a broken pep-talk for an audience of one. "He's just another creep with too much money and entitlement. You've handled worse."

But even as the words leave my chapped lips, I know they're a lie. Dante Corleone is unlike anyone I've ever encountered, in this life or any other. He is darkness incarnate, a living shadow that consumes everything in his path. And if that display last night was any indication, he's made it his mission to consume me, body and profane fucking soul.

Flashes of our encounter strobe behind my eyes in lurid technicolor—his feral grin, the cruel grip of his fingers in my hair, the undeniable heat of his body pressing me into the mattress. I can still taste him on my tongue, bourbon and brimstone, damnation and desire.

Bile rises in my throat and I swallow it down with another drag, relishing the burn. Physical pain is an old friend, a reminder that I'm still here, still breathing. As long as I can feel, as long as I can bleed, I'm not completely lost.

Not yet.

The shriek of sirens in the distance, a nightly lullaby in this concrete jungle, drags me from the quicksand of my spiraling thoughts. I can't afford to fall apart, not when the wolves are already at the door, fangs bared and ready to tear into my tender flesh.

I need to move, to shake off this creeping malaise before it drowns me completely. With a groan, I lever myself out of bed, every joint popping like morbid bubble wrap. My reflection in the cracked vanity mirror is a gothic horror show—snarled hair, raccoon eyes, and a sickly pallor that speaks of too many liquid dinners and not enough actual sustenance.

"Looking good, Quinn," I sneer at the ghost girl staring back at me. "Real poster child for mental stability."

I'm halfway through a halfhearted attempt at making myself semi-human again when I hear it—a pounding at my door, heavy and insistent. Cop knock, my lizard brain helpfully supplies, the kind that says "open up, we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Every muscle in my body goes rigid, a prey animal sensing a predator. I know I should answer, should paste on a brave face and confront whatever fresh hell is waiting for me on the other side. But my feet are rooted to the dingy tiles, a creeping dread turning my veins to ice water.

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