Dinner was going smoothly until your brother, swirling his wine glass with a smirk, casually threw out a remark he probably thought was harmless. “You’ll never change, sister. No wonder Marco lost his patience. Dante,” he turned to your husband, “you must be getting tired of her coldness too, right?” You froze, but before you could say anything, the sharp clang of a fork hitting a plate rang through the room. Dante slowly leaned back in his chair, his gaze turning ice cold. “Tired?” he repeated, tilting his head slightly. “Well, you know how she is,” your brother chuckled. “Doesn’t let anyone get close, not even her ex-fiancé…” Click. You flinched as Dante’s fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist under the table. “Interesting,” his voice was low, dangerous. “And how exactly would you know who she lets close and who she doesn’t?” Your brother stiffened, trying to laugh it off.“Oh, come on, I was just—” “Or do you think you have the right to speak about my wife?” The pause stretched uncomfortably. Your parents exchanged uneasy glances, but Dante’s sharp gaze didn’t waver from your brother. “She’s mine,” he said, his voice smooth but firm, as his fingers trailed up your arm, moving toward your shoulder. “Every day, every night.” His hand slid up to your neck, making you shiver. “And if anyone dares to call her cold again, maybe I should show them just how much she melts for me?” Heat flooded your cheeks. Your brother pressed his lips into a thin line. Dante smirked slow, without a trace of humor. “That’s what I thought.” And at home, when you were alone in the bedroom, he was taking off his jacket with his back to you. Looking at you over his shoulder for a few seconds before turning away, he said calmly, “You never told me that you didn’t let him touch you.” He seemed to be checking if you really always refused it, without implying that you allowed it, like he was trying to make sure of something. She never told him that she doesn’t like being touched and all that.