Page 95 of Theirs to Rule

“Maybe I’ll just keep this key for myself,” I quipped, masking the warmth blooming in my chest with sarcasm.

“Do it,” he said simply, his voice softer now, like it wasn’t just a joke.

For a moment, neither of us spoke, and the silence between us felt like a heavy, tangible thing. My future—everything I’d imagined—seemed incomplete without Dante in it. But there was Kage, too. And Ty. All of it was so tangled and impossible that I pushed the thoughts aside before they could suffocate me.

“Okay,” I said, fishing out the key. “I’m going in.”

Dante’s house was exactly how I remembered it: pristine, organized, a place where everything had a purpose. “Are you a neat freak, or do you just hire a cleaning service?” I teased as I stepped inside.

“Maybe you’re just messy,” Dante shot back, the grin evident in his voice.

I opened his fridge, already rifling through its contents. “You should hit the grocery store. All you have in here is healthy stuff. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Check behind the water bottles,” he said, like he was humoring me.

I found the box, and when I opened it, a smile tugged at my lips. Inside was a small white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake from my favorite café. My heart did a stupid little flip, and I hated how much it warmed me.

“You’re not completely hopeless,” I muttered, trying to sound unimpressed.

“See you soon, Camille,” he said, his voice low and intimate, before the call ended.

I wandered around his house, letting my curiosity get the better of me. His bookshelf caught my attention again, an eclectic mix of titles that somehow screamed Dante: philosophical treatises sitting next to action novels and a few old photo albums. One album, slightly out of place, drew my attention. I hesitated before pulling it free and flipping it open.

The first page was all childhood innocence—pictures of Dante as a kid, all serious eyes and chubby cheeks. As I turned the pages, his face matured, that familiar intensity settling in. One photo caught my eye: a group shot with his best friend and a young girl. Her smile was wide, her eyes bright, and there was something hauntingly familiar about her.

My thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. My stomach twisted, and I froze, half-expecting trouble. When a woman’s voice called out, urgent and shaky, I moved cautiously to the door.

“Dante, are you there? I need help.”

Peering through the peephole, I saw her: disheveled, frazzled, and very obviously not okay. Recognition hit me like a punch to the gut. It was Jane—the woman from the photo.

I texted Dante, but he didn’t respond. The woman knocked again, louder this time, her desperation palpable. Against my better judgment, I opened the door.

“Where’s Dante?” she demanded, her voice sharp, her eyes wild. “Is he in there? Are you hiding him from me?”

“What? No.” I stepped back instinctively, caught off guard by her energy. “He’s not here, but he’ll be back soon.”

Jane pushed past me, muttering under her breath. Up close, I saw the bruises on her arms, the gauntness in her face, the needle marks just below her elbows. My stomach twisted. Memories of finding my mother’s lifeless body came rushing back.

“Jane,” I said cautiously, “why don’t you sit down? I can make you something to eat?—”

“I don’t need your charity,” she snapped, though her voice cracked, betraying her vulnerability. “It’s his fault, you know. He gets to have you, and I have nothing.”

Her words hit me like a slap. “You have your son,” I said quietly, trying to keep my tone gentle. “And Dante cares about you.”

“Cares about me?” she sneered. “Did he tell you about Rhianna? Did he tell you how she died? No, of course not. He wouldn’t.”

“Jane—”

“She took bad drugs,” Jane spat, tears welling in her eyes. “Bad drugs Dante gave her.”

The world tilted. “That’s not true,” I said, my voice trembling. “Dante wouldn’t—he’s not?—”

“Wake up, sweetheart,” she said, her tone bitter. “Who do you think gave me the drugs I’m high on right now?”

Shock rooted me in place. I didn’t want to believe her, couldn’t. But the doubt was there now, burrowing into my mind like a parasite. The Dante I knew was strong, steady, protective. Not this.

“I have to go,” I whispered, backing away.

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