Bella had spent three years fighting this.
Fighting him.
Fighting herself.
But now?
Now, with Dante's body pressed against hers, his breath hot, his touch unrelenting—
She wasn't sure she had the strength to keep pretending.
His kiss was wild, desperate, punishing.
Not just an act of desire.
But a claim.
A reminder that no matter how far she ran, no matter how much she tried to sever the bond between them—it had never truly broken.
Dante owned her.
And he always had.
His hands gripped her waist, pulling her closer, forcing her to feel every inch of him, his heat, his strength, the way his body had been carved by war and loss and longing.
Bella trembled.
Not from fear.
From need.
From the aching, burning, unrelenting hunger that had never truly gone away.
"Tell me to stop," Dante growled against her lips, his fingers trailing slowly down her spine, making her shudder.
Bella's chest heaved.
She should.
She should tell him to stop, to let her go, to walk away before this destroyed them both.
But when she opened her mouth—
The only thing that came out was a soft, shattering moan.
Dante's grip tightened.
"That's what I thought."
Then—
He kissed her again.
Harder.
Deeper.
Like he was trying to consume her whole.
And Bella?
Bella let him.