The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on, the kind that wrapped around your lungs and made it impossible to breathe normally. Dante's study was supposed to be his sanctuary, a place for him to bury himself in work and avoid the messy complications of his personal life—like you. But tonight, it had become something else entirely.

You pressed your back against the bookshelf behind you, your heart pounding in your chest as you stared up at Dante Russo, the man you were bound to by a marriage neither of you wanted. His tall, broad figure loomed over you, his olive skin glistening faintly in the dim lighting. He was still dressed in his usual sharp suit, but his tie was loose, the first sign of his unraveling control.

His dark eyes bore into yours, a dangerous mix of anger, frustration, and something else that you couldn’t quite name. His lips—those firm, sensual lips—were pressed into a tight line, but they trembled ever so slightly, betraying the cool, unbothered façade he usually maintained.

“You asked me once if this was just business,” Dante said, his voice low and rough, like gravel rolling over velvet. There was something almost desperate in his tone, something that made your pulse quicken. His large hands were on either side of you, pinning you against the shelf, caging you in with nowhere to escape. Not that you wanted to.

His eyes, a shade darker than usual, locked onto yours, waiting, daring you to respond. But you couldn’t. Words were lost to you as the air between you crackled, like the aftermath of a lightning strike, leaving only the lingering heat and the undeniable energy pulling you both together.

“Ask me again,” he murmured, his lips so close now that you could feel his breath against your skin. It sent a shiver down your spine, even though the room felt like it was on fire.