Page 162 of Theirs to Ruin

Their words stung as I thought about how easily he’d discarded me, even after he’d jerked off while watching me and Kage. The guy had tracked my phone, for God’s sake! Now he was a stalker who'd lost interest once he'd caught his prey? The lingering feeling of his mouth on mine, the memory of how he'd made me feel–wet, wanted–it all seemed laughable now.

I shook my head, trying to dispel the thoughts. “Damn you, Dante. Damn you and your effect on me,” I muttered but what use were the words when he couldn’t hear them?

It was about time he did.

Chapter 66

Camille

After I left the coffee shop, I headed to the counseling office on campus. When I got there, Mrs. Wells greeted me.

“I’m here to see Dante,” I said.

She cocked a brow. “You mean Mr. Morillo?”

“Right, Mr. Morillo.”

"I’m terribly sorry, dear, he's out sick."

"Sick?"

She hesitated for a split second, probably deciding whether to share more than she should. "Yes," she finally replied, leaning closer, her voice a whisper. "I heard he had a motorcycle accident. Poor man."

My heart sank. Images of Dante, injured and alone, flashed in my head. Was that why he hadn’t reached out after Casino Night? I needed to see him, to make sure he was okay.

Mrs. Wells got up, grabbing her purse. "Well, I'm off on my break. Anything else you need?"

"No, that's all. Thanks," I replied.

I left but doubled back after a couple of minutes to see the office empty. I darted behind the desk. Luckily, Mrs. Wells’s computer screen was still unlocked. A quick search led me to a list of staff addresses. I quickly jotted down Dante's address on a piece of scrap paper.

I raced back to the chateau. No one was home when I went inside to grab the keys to Kage’s Bugatti. I hadn’t driven it since he gifted it to me but I took no pleasure in the drive. When I pulled up to Dante’s place, I took in the small generic house. Parked right in front was an old motorcycle I’d never seen before.

I ran to the front door. My knuckles rapped against the hard wood. No response. "Dante?" I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. Still silence. But I wasn't about to give up that easily.

I walked around the house and through a side gate into a simple but beautiful Zen garden. It had plenty of shade from trees that blocked the views of neighboring houses, decomposed granite paths, a fountain and plants in clay pots. I spotted a door and tried the knob. It was unlocked. Slowly, I opened the door, which led into a kitchen. I called Dante’s name.

There was no response but I heard a shower running.

Turn around and leave.

I didn’t listen to the hissed whisper in my head. Instead, I walked into the kitchen and closed the door behind me.

The kitchen was all white tile and dark wood. The adjoining living room matched Dante’s wardrobe: neutral colors, simple shapes, and an undeniable masculinity. Nothing was modern, but everything was tidy and organized, almost obsessively so.

On the kitchen counter sat a big glass jar filled to the brim with chocolate peanut butter cups, which surprised me. Dante had once told me he was a vegetarian and didn’t eat a lot of junk.When I lifted the jar lid, there wasn’t room to fit another piece of candy inside.

I opened his refrigerator, which was filled with health food—yogurt, cut up vegetables in glass containers, fresh fruit, avocados, hummus, whole grain bread, and cold pressed juices. Dante obviously treated his magnificent body like a temple, so what was up with the candy?

Maybe it had to do with yin and yang. Balance. Only unless he filled up the candy jar every time he took out a piece, it didn’t look like he ever ate anything inside.

I was about to check out Dante’s bookcases, wondering if they held the same types of philosophy books he kept in his office, when the shower suddenly turned off. I braced myself.

I heard a door open, saw a plume of steam, then Dante stepped into the living room wearing a towel that hung low on his hips. He looked unharmed, thankfully, but seeing him almost naked brought an unexpected rush of heat to my face.

I couldn’t help but compare this sight to the time I'd seen Ty, fresh out of a shower, with a towel wrapped around him. But where Ty was lean, his muscles defined, Dante was broader, more muscular. Both had tattoos but the glimpse I’d gotten of Ty’s tattoos made me think of art, while the tattoos on Dante’s body made me think of death and destruction.

His wet hair hung loose, droplets of water trailing down his chiseled chest, making their way past his abs and disappearing into the towel.

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