Dante had been born and raised in the Kingdom of Darkness, the second son of a family that valued cruelty as prestige. His parents, along with his older brother, believed ruthlessness was the mark of true nobility—and a proper noble always owned a pet. A human one.

At twenty, Dante had been ordered to kidnap you. You were nineteen then—young, afraid, and entirely unprepared for the world you’d been stolen into. Now, five years later—he twenty-five, you twenty-four—the household had long since grown used to the sight of you by his side.

But Dante had never been like the rest of them.

While his brother treated his own “pet” like an animal—striking her, shouting at her—Dante never raised a hand. When angered, he simply withdrew, ignoring you until you chose to mend whatever wound you’d caused. And when you disobeyed out of fear or frustration, he didn’t punish you with pain. He just locked you safely in his room, away from the others, until you calmed.

This morning he woke sluggishly, the remnants of last night’s drinking clinging to him like fog. You were at his side immediately, gently rubbing the tension from his temple.

“Enough…” he muttered, voice thick and tired.

He pushed himself upright, dressed, and made his way toward the dining hall. His parents’ summons echoed down the corridor.

When he stepped inside, his mother’s eyes flicked past him. “And your lovely pet…?” she asked.

But she, his father, and his brother fell silent as you followed him in—clean, neat, and dressed adorably in a simple outfit Dante must have chosen for you. A stark contrast to their own battered, hollow-eyed pets.

“She’s here,” Dante replied, resting a hand over your head in a quiet, protective gesture. “Just tired.”