Page 103 of Shadows of Steel
Dante’s eyes flick to mine, momentarily surprised. But the shock is fleeting, quickly overtaken by… pride? “That’s my woman.” His voice is rich with satisfaction. Then, the warmth vanishing as quickly as it came. “Tell me how he died.”
I shift, looking away. “He was drunk. He came into my room. Tried to…” I swallow hard. “But he was sloppy. I grabbed the vase from my nightstand and smashed it against the back of his head. It shattered on impact, one of the shards lodged deep in his throat.”
Dante exhales slowly, his stare glacial. “I should have been the one to kill him.”
I let out a dry laugh.
He watches me for a long moment, then exhales. “You thought he was the stalker.”
“At first, yes. The notes stopped after he died, but then they started again. Even though it wasn’t his style, it was easier to believe it was him—easier than accepting the alternative. But after our engagement party, they escalated into something far more than just words on paper.”
Dante doesn’t move, but I can feel his tension crackling like a live wire.
“You already know the rest.” I finish.
His voice is grim. “I’ll find him.” His eyes flick over me, dark and unreadable. “And when I do, he won’t live long enough to regret it.”
As we ascend the stairs and step into the bathroom, Dante strips off his gym shorts before turning to the large marble tub, filling it with steaming water.
He casts a glance over his shoulder, smirk laced with mischief. “Join me.”
I arch a brow, arms crossing. “Dante, you’ll be late.”
His chuckle is low. “Irrelevant.”
I give in, watching as Dante sinks into the bath, the water lapping over the sculpted planes of his body. He leans back against the marble, his gaze never leaving mine as he extends a hand.
With a sigh, I take it, stepping into the steaming water. The heat envelops me instantly, soothing against my skin. The moment I settle between his legs, his hands grip my waist, pulling me flush against him.
The last thing I hear before my moan drowns out his words is the dark, silken growl against my lips. “Fuck the meeting. This is more important.”
And he proves it.
By the time Dante finally rises from the bath, I’m boneless, thoroughly wrecked from another round, my third orgasm leaving me too spent to do anything but sink deeper into the steaming water. I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he steps out, water cascading down his body, muscles flexing as he reaches for a towel. He dries off, unfairly put together for a man who had just fucked me senseless. Wrapping the towel low around his hips, he glances back at me, smirking as I remain draped over the edge of the tub, skin flushed, body languid.
“Stay a little longer,” he murmurs, smoothing a damp strand of hair from my face. “Soak. Relax. I have to go.”
He presses a lingering kiss to my temple before stepping away. I watch, half-dazed, as he disappears through the door, his scent still hanging in the air.
With a sigh, I sink deeper into the massive soaking tub, letting the hot water soothe the ache he left in my muscles.
Eventually, I step out of the bath, steam curling around me as I reach for a towel, wrapping the plush fabric around my body. Moving toward the dresser, I pull open a drawer, retrieve a fresh pair of silk panties, and slip them on before dragging softlounge shorts up my legs. An oversized tee follows, the fabric cool against my still-warm skin.
Just as I turn toward the door, a sharp pang lances through my lower abdomen, deep and twisting, spreading through my lower back like a dull, insistent throb.
Wonderful.
I exhale, pressing a hand to my stomach. My period is here. Three days of cramps, cravings, and hormonal warfare ahead.
With a muttered curse, I turn back toward the bathroom, rummaging through the cabinets until I find what I need. After taking care of myself, I slip back into bed, curling beneath the sheets in an attempt to ride out the dull ache twisting through my lower abdomen.
Minutes pass, maybe longer. Eventually, I glance at the clock on the nightstand, to see that’s already lunchtime.
With a quiet sigh, I push myself up, padding out of the room and making my way toward the dining area. The faint clink of silverware draws my attention to the long table, where Mattia sits alone, hunched over a plate of pasta, swinging his feet.
His dark hair is a mess. His shirt is slightly oversized. The kid looks like he rolled straight out of bed and into his seat.
I slide into the chair next to him, reaching for a plate. “Guess it’s just us, huh?”
