Page 33 of Savage Devotion

She considers this, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "And if I try to run?"

I set my glass down, all pretense of casual conversation vanishing. "Then I will find you. And what happens after will make your previous punishments seem like caresses."

The threat hangs between us, but instead of fear, I see calculation in her eyes.

"You're taking a risk," she observes, finishing her scotch. "That speaks of either great confidence or great foolishness."

I stand, moving to stand before her chair, forcing her to look up at me. "Which do you think it is, princess?"

She rises slowly, bringing our bodies close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her.

"I think…" she says carefully. "That you're a man who calculates every risk. Which means you believe you've already won my loyalty."

"Haven't I?" I challenge softly.

Instead of answering, she does something unexpected. She places her empty glass on my desk, then reaches up to straighten my tie in a gesture so domestic, so possessive, it steals my breath in a way no one ever has before.

"I guess we'll find out in Paris," she murmurs, her fingers lingering against my chest before she steps back. "May I beexcused? I should pack whatever personal items I'm permitted to bring."

I nod, momentarily unbalanced by her touch. She turns to leave, pausing at the doorway.

"Oh, and Dante?"

"Yes?"

Her smile is mysterious, holding secrets I suddenly burn to uncover. "Thank you. For Paris."

She's gone before I can respond, leaving me with the phantom sensation of her fingers against my chest and the haunting suspicion that the hunter may be becoming the hunted.

Chapter Nine

Dante

The private jet gleams silver under the airport lights, the Ravelli insignia barely visible on its tail. Marco supervises the loading of our luggage while Vincent conducts a final security sweep.

Francesca steps onto the tarmac beside me, her face tilted up to catch the rare London sunlight. She wears a tailored black pantsuit I selected for travel—modest yet undeniably elegant, with a single diamond pendant at her throat. A gift I left in her room this morning.

"I assume this is not your first time on a private jet?" I ask as we approach the aircraft.

"No," she replies, her eyes still on the sky rather than the luxury awaiting us. "My father had one. Smaller than this. We used it for business trips when I accompanied him."

Of course. The Castellanos would have provided their prize daughter with only the best. Another reminder that Francescawas never ordinary, never innocent. She was bred for this world, just as I was.

As we board, I watch her take in the opulent interior. Italian leather seating, polished tables, a fully stocked bar, and bedroom suite at the rear.

Unlike typical passengers seeing such luxury for the first time, she doesn't gawk or exclaim. Instead, she observes with the careful assessment of someone evaluating assets.

"The flight's approximately ninety minutes," I inform her as we take our seats. "You're free to move freely within the cabin, but the cockpit and communications areas are restricted."

She nods, accepting the champagne flute a steward offers. "Do your men accompany us on board?"

"Marco and two security personnel," I confirm. "The rest travel separately to ensure we have security already on the ground when we arrive."

The engines roar to life, and within minutes, we're airborne, London shrinking rapidly beneath us. Francesca watches through the window, her profile etched against the brightening sky.

There's something almost wistful in her expression. It's not quite sadness, but not quite hope either.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask, an unusual desire to know her thoughts overtaking my usual grumpy composure.

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