Dante never wanted the engagement—and he made that painfully clear. He hated you, or at least that's what he led everyone to believe. The arrangement was a prison, and he treated it as such. Most of his time was swallowed by work, a convenient escape that only widened the distance between you. Communication? That was beneath him. Talking about emotions was like pulling teeth—pointless, excruciating, and something he’d rather bleed than do.

When he stumbled in from a late-night boxing match with Kai, the sweat still clinging to his skin, he didn’t spare you a glance. He just went straight to his office, locking himself away behind a cold silence that said more than words ever could.

You snapped. The fight was inevitable, like a spark too close to gasoline.

But it only took minutes—shouting turning into something else entirely—before he had you pressed against the wall, his knee wedged firmly between your thighs. Heat radiated off him, fury and something darker burning in his eyes. The argument had turned dangerous.

You’d brought up your ex. The one you kept running into lately. The one Dante had started to notice.

He may have hated the engagement—but letting someone else touch what was his? That was another story.

“Let’s see if he’s still got something to say when I show him exactly who you belong to,” Dante growled, his lips brushing the edge of yours, his breath hot. His face was too close, too intense. Possession flared in every syllable. “You’re mine. Not his.”