Page 54 of Ruthless Desire

The temptation to storm into her studio and demand answers is a living thing, clawing at my guts with talons of obsessive need. But I resist, clenching my fists until my nails bite into my palms. I won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me unravel. Not yet.

Instead, I summon Alonzo with a terse jerk of my chin. My ever-faithful shadow materializes at my side, his expression carefully blank. But I see the flicker of something in his eyes, a glimmer of unease that sets my already frayed nerves on edge.

"Is everything prepared?" I ask, my voice deceptively soft.

He nods curtly. "Yes, boss. Just like you asked."

I study him for a long moment, looking for any hint of deception, of divided loyalties. He meets my gaze steadily, but there's a tension in his broad shoulders, a wariness that wasn't there before. Before her.

"You would tell me if our little bird was up to something, wouldn't you, Alonzo?" The question is a silken threat, laced with the promise of retribution. "If she was weaving her webs, ensnaring the help in her schemes?"

Alonzo swallows hard, a vein pulsing in his thick neck. "Of course, boss. I'm loyal to you, always have been, always will be."

I let the silence stretch between us, heavy with unspoken menace. Then I smile, a slow, cruel curve of the lips. "Glad to hear it, old friend. Now, let's go play Santa Claus, shall we?"

As I make my way to Natalie's room, a strange sensation unfurls beneath my breastbone. It takes me a moment to recognize it for what it is—a sickening alchemy of nervousness and anticipation. Christ, what has this woman done to me?

She's curled up on the window seat when I enter, a book lying forgotten in her lap as she stares out at the frost-limned gardens below. The fading winter light paints her in shades of silver and shadow, a study in pensive beauty that makes my blackened soul ache.

"Natalie."

She stiffens at the sound of my voice, a minute tensing of slender shoulders before she turns to face me. Her expression is carefully composed, a mask of demure obedience that might fool a lesser man. But I see the wariness in her eyes, the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.

"Dante," she murmurs, rising with a rustle of silk.

I drink her in, this elusive creature who haunts my every waking thought. She's dressed simply today, in a clinging sheath of emerald green that brings out the gold in her eyes. No jewels adorn her slender throat or wrists, no heavy gems weigh down her elegant hands. She's a vision of understated grace, a far cry from the paint-splattered hellion I first dragged into my world.

"I have a surprise for you," I say, reaching for her.

She hesitates for the space of a heartbeat before placing her hand in mine, her skin cool and soft against my calloused palm. I suppress a shiver at her touch, at the way her proximity sets my blood to simmering. Damn her. Damn her to the deepest circle of hell.

"A surprise?" There's a note of trepidation in her voice, barely detectable beneath the practiced veneer of pleasant interest. "What kind of surprise?"

I flash her a wolfish grin, tugging her closer until the heat of her body seeps into mine. "The kind that will make you very, very happy. If you're a good girl, that is."

Something flares in her eyes at that, a spark of defiance quickly smothered. It sends a dark thrill through me, a savage satisfaction. She's still in there, my fierce little raven. Still fighting, still resisting, even as she plays the part of the dutiful pet.

Good. I'd be bored to tears if I'd truly broken her. It's the dance that thrills me, the endless push and pull of our twisted tango. Her submission is so much sweeter when it's laced with forbidden thorns.

"Come," I command, lacing our fingers together. "Your gift awaits."

I lead her through the twisting corridors of Shadowcrest, the silence between us heavy with unspoken tension. Alonzo trails in our wake, a hulking shadow I can feel boring into my back. Watching. Assessing. The prickle between my shoulder blades grows with each step, an annoying itch I can't scratch.

By the time we reach the east wing salon, my nerves are strung tighter than a garrote. I pause before the ornate doors, turning to face my wayward queen.

"Close your eyes," I order softly.

She blinks up at me, a frown marring her brow. "Why?"

"Because I said so." I lift my free hand, tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone with my thumb. "Now, be a good girl and do as you're told."

Her lashes flutter shut, a small shudder rippling through her as she leans into my touch. I drink in the sight of her, committing every detail to memory—the dark fan of her lashes against her cheeks, the petal softness of her skin, the way her lips part ever so slightly, as if begging for my kiss.

Mine. My dark madonna, my twisted muse. The only crack in my obsidian armor.

With a bleak smile, I nod to Alonzo. He pushes open the doors, and a cacophony of yips and yaps fills the air. Natalie's eyes fly open, widening in shock as she takes in the scene before her.

The salon has been transformed into a makeshift puppy playpen, its priceless antiques and plush carpets covered in a riot of squeaky toys and piddle pads. And in the midst of it all, gamboling on clumsy paws, is a squirming mass of pitbull puppies, their eyes bright and tails wagging furiously.

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