Page 87 of Ruthless Desire

Chapter 25 Natalie

My skin is warm, sticky with sweat and blood, a crimson map drying across my body. Luca’s lifeless eyes stare up at nothing, but Dante’s gaze—burning, wild—holds me captive. His eyes, dark and untamed, have always been mine.

I should feel something—guilt, horror, anything—but all I think about is how to capture this moment. The raw energy pulses through my veins, begging to be transformed into something real, something lasting.

“We can’t let this go to waste,” I whisper, the words barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

Dante, still inside me, his body still thrumming with the aftershock of violence, turns his head slightly. His eyes meet mine, and I know he can see my need to give this moment permanence.

“What do you want, Moya Koroleva?” His voice is rough, worn from exertion, but there’s a softness there too. An understanding that runs deeper than words.

“I want to create,” I murmur, the urgency building in my chest. “I need to… create.”

A slow, dark smile spreads across Dante’s lips. His gaze flickers with something possessive, something that says he’s all mine and I’m all his. He straightens, a towering presence even in the aftermath of chaos. “Then create my dark muse. Show me what’s inside that brilliant mind of yours.”

He barks an order, his voice slicing through the stillness of the room. His men enter swiftly, eyes on the floor, knowing better than to look at me—at what we’ve done. They know the boundaries, the unspoken rules that govern Dante’s world, and they move like their lives depend on it.

In moments, the space around me is transformed. An easel stands where Luca’s blood still seeps into the cracks of the concrete. A blank canvas waits to be touched, to be stained with the remnants of what we’ve created.

The men are gone as quickly as they came, leaving us alone in the dim, echoing space. The cuts Dante left on my body sting with every movement, the blood mingling with Luca’s as it drips down my skin. But the pain is nothing compared to the fire burning inside me, demanding release.

I stand on shaky legs, feeling Dante’s gaze heavy on me, a constant presence that drives me forward. My fingers tremble as I reach down, dipping them into the warm, viscous pool of blood. The first touch of it against the canvas sends a shiver through me, the act of creation merging with the destruction that lingers in the air.

Dante stays close behind me, close enough that I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. He’s watching, waiting, the tension thick as the blood staining my skin.

The cuts on my arms and torso sting as I move, the blood trickling down in thin lines that I smear across the canvas, mixing with Luca’s to create something raw and primal. Each stroke is a release, a way to channel the chaos inside me into something tangible, something that speaks of the darkness I’ve unleashed.

“Show me, solnyshko,” Dante murmurs, his voice a low growl that vibrates through the room. “Show me everything.”

I don’t hold back. I let the blood flow, let it soak into the canvas, into my skin, into the very essence of who I am. Every stroke is deliberate, every smear a reflection of the violence and passion that define us. The canvas becomes a mirror, reflecting the twisted beauty of what we’ve done.

Dante steps closer, his hand hovering just above my waist, the heat of his presence grounding me even as I lose myself in the creation. The pain from the cuts is a sharp, constant reminder of the price we’ve paid, and yet it fuels me, drives me to push further.

When I finally step back, breathless and trembling, I stare at the chaotic blend of reds and blacks, sharp lines and smudged edges that have taken shape before me. It’s raw, it’s brutal, and yet there’s something…off. Something that keeps it from being complete.

“It’s missing something,” I whisper, almost to myself.

Dante’s hand slides around my waist, pulling me close, his body a solid wall of heat against my back. “And what’s that, moy voron?” he asks, his voice a dark caress against my ear.

I look at the canvas, at the blood dried on my fingers, the cuts that still ooze crimson. “Well,” I murmur, a dark smile curling my lips, “we have Luca’s blood, and my blood… All we’re missing is yours.”

For a moment, there’s only silence, the air between us thick with the weight of my words. Then Dante chuckles, low and dangerous, the sound vibrating through me as he reaches for the blade still slick with my blood.

His hand is steady as he draws the blade across his palm, the cut deep and precise. Blood wells up, dark and rich, and he holds it out to me, his eyes never leaving mine. “Take it, Natalie. Finish it.”

I dip my fingers into the warm pool of his blood, feeling the power of it, the connection it seals between us. And then, with a final, deliberate stroke, I smear it across the canvas, completing the masterpiece we’ve created together.

Dante’s arm tightens around me as he pulls me close, his blood mingling with mine, with Luca’s, on the canvas that stands as a testament to what we’ve become.

“It’s perfect,” I whisper, feeling the final piece click into place. “We’re perfect.”

“You’re perfect, solynshko.” Dante's response is simple. Clear.

And in that moment, with Dante’s blood still warm on my hands and the evidence of our twisted love smeared across the canvas, I know that this is who we are—this is what we’ve created… And it’s everything.

I can still feel the sting of the cuts Dante left on my body, each one a burning reminder of who I am now—of who I’ve become.

But beneath the pain, beneath the blood, there’s something else—something alive, something dangerous. My heart races, each beat a reminder that I’m still here, still breathing, still wanting. And the truth of that want scares me as much as it thrills me.

---