I didn't knock.
Didn't have to.
The doorman saw my face and didn't ask a single question. Maybe it was the dress. Maybe it was the way I moved—like I was made of fire and didn't care who burned.
Or maybe he recognized it.
That look.
The one a woman wears when she's not coming for conversation.
The elevator ride up was silent, but my pulse wasn't. It throbbed in my throat, behind my eyes, between my legs—louder with every floor I passed. Not because I missed him. Not because I wanted him.
But because I hated myself for wanting anyone right now.
Especially him.
I didn't text.
Didn't call.
Didn't warn.
And yet the door opened before I could even raise a fist to knock.
Dante stood there. Bare chest. Low sweatpants. A silver chain glinting against collarbones I still hadn't recovered from.
His eyes raked over me slowly. Like a man checking a package he hadn't ordered—but would keep anyway.
"You look like sin," he murmured. "Worse—you look like you want to confess."
I pushed past him.
He didn't stop me.
Didn't ask why.
Didn't need to.
The air between us had always known how this ends.
"Close the door," I said, voice lower than I meant.
He did.
No questions.
No questions ever.
Just hands.
On my hips. In my hair. Against the wall before I could catch my breath.
"You sure?" he asked, voice rough.
I turned, grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him down until our foreheads touched. My breath hitched—not from nerves, but from restraint.
"I'm not here to be safe."
His mouth found mine.
No softness. No hesitation.
Just lips parting like gates to war.
Some girls cry after betrayal. Some take off their panties and hand over the matchbox.
His kiss didn't ask.
It took.
Like he'd been waiting, building, rehearsing all the ways he'd split me open without a single ounce of guilt. And I let him. I kissed him back like it was a fucking crime scene—like every breath, every gasp, was a piece of evidence I didn't want wiped away.
He lifted me.
Just like that.
No words.
Back slammed against the nearest surface. A mirror maybe. Or a painting. I didn't care. All I felt was his mouth on my neck, dragging teeth across the bruise he hadn't even seen yet.
"Someone else touched you," he muttered into my skin.
Not a question. Just truth.
But he didn't stop.
Didn't pull back.
Because this wasn't about jealousy. It was about reclamation.
"You came to me," he said, voice guttural, hands already under my dress. "So now you don't get to run."
I didn't.
I couldn't.
Not when my legs had already opened. Not when my panties were already soaked through, clinging to me like regret.
"Dante," I whispered, and it came out like a prayer—half sacred, half sick.
He tore the fabric.
Just ripped them down with one hand, the other pinning my wrists above my head like I was his prisoner and his gift.
"You want revenge?" he growled. "You came to the wrong man."
Pause.
Then his mouth was there.
On me.
Not soft. Not teasing. Not gentle.
He licked like he was trying to erase every trace of Cassian. Every mistake. Every memory. Tongue deep, rhythm relentless. Like he had something to prove—and a goddamn stopwatch running.
I arched.
Screamed.
Clawed at the air because there was nothing else to hold.
And when I came?
It wasn't quiet.
It wasn't pretty.
It was raw. Violent. The kind of orgasm that makes your spine feel like it's trying to leave your body.
But he wasn't done.
Not even close.
He stood, eyes black, lips glistening with proof.
"I'm not going to fuck you like he does," he said. "I'm going to ruin you so bad, even your lies will limp."
And then he unzipped.
No condom.
No warning.
Just him, slamming into me like the apology I never got—and the punishment I deserved.