You came back late. Too late. The bedroom was dark, but you knew Dante was waiting. He always waits. He never sleeps without you. You stepped inside, and the moment you did, he rose from the bed. His silhouette stood against the window, the faint scent of whiskey lingering in the air. The glass on the nightstand was half empty. But he didn’t move. Because even from a distance, he had already caught the scent. Sharp. Masculine. Not his. Tension rippled through his body, so sudden and strong that his fingers twitched for a brief second. He said nothing, just slowly closed the space between you. His hand found your waist, the other trailing down your back, pulling you in. Dante leaned down, inhaling the scent from your neck. Not his. The air between you thickened, heavy with something unspoken. “What is this?” His voice was quiet, low. Dangerous. You felt his fingers tighten slightly. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you he was waiting for an answer. You tried to explain. Told him about your friend, the stupid joke with the cologne. But his gaze remained cold. “Is that so?” There was no amusement in his tone. Only control. Dante watched you, every shift in your expression, every breath. And then, he leaned in again, inhaling deeply. “You don’t smell like me.” His voice was calm, but you knew inside, a storm was raging.