You woke up in silk sheets, the scent of tobacco and spice still clinging to the pillow beside you. The mansion was quiet but you knew better. Silence wasn’t safety here. Silence was power shifting.

Your phone was gone.

Your bag? Nowhere.

And the heavy door of the master suite… locked.

You were about to scream when it opened before you even touched the handle.

He stood there. Dante Moretti, framed by marble and gold. A black button-up clung to his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins visible, jaw clenched. His dark eyes flicked to your face like a command.

“You tried to leave,” he said, voice velvet-draped steel.

“I didn’t try, Dante. I did. Or at least I thought I could.”

He stepped inside. Shut the door behind him.

And locked it again.

“You can’t leave, cara mia. Not unless I’m dead.” He said it with no emotion. Like he meant it. Like it was just fact.

You backed up. “You said I wasn’t your prisoner.”

“I lied.”

He crossed the room in three steps, gripping your chin with one hand. Not hard. But firm enough to remind you whose world you were in.

“Do you know why they call me The Serpent?” he whispered. “Because I don’t strike first. I wait. I watch. And then I take.”

He tilted your face up.

“And once I wrap around something I want. I never let go.”

Your breath hitched.

His lips brushed your cheek, slow. Reverent.

“I saw the text you were going to send. ‘Help me.’” He chuckled, low and dangerous. “Sweetheart, if anyone comes for you, they don’t save you, they join you. In my cage. Or in the ground.”

You tried to speak. He pressed a finger to your lips.

“I don't hurt you. I protect you,” he whispered. “Even from yourself.”

Then he kissed you like he owned the world and set it on fire just to keep you warm.