Dante stares at me for three long seconds. His dark eyes trace the curve of my throat. The muscle in his jaw jumps.
He unclips his tactical vest and lets it drop to the floor, then grabs the hem of his dark henley. In one smooth, sudden motion, he pulls the shirt over his head.
Air refuses to enter my chest.
He is a masterwork of scarred muscle and absolute authority. Heavily muscled pecs. A washboard stomach dusted with dark hair that trails down past the waistband of his tactical pants. The ink from his arms crawls across his broad shoulders, ornate black lines stark against his tanned skin. The small, jagged scar I noticed earlier sits on his upper right chest. He is a walking weapon.
He holds the dark shirt out to me.
"Put it on." A direct command.
"I have a shirt," I manage to say. My voice sounds embarrassingly breathless.
"Your shirt is ruined. It is thin. The temperature in this building will drop another ten degrees before morning." He steps closer. The heat radiating off his bare chest is a furnace. "Put my shirt on, Gemma."
The territorial edge in his tone is unmistakable. He is not just offering warmth. He is offering a claim. He wants me wrapped in his clothes. He wants me in his scent.
It’s a blatant claim of ownership.And damn it to hell, it is working too well. The feminist, independent business owner in me screams to reject it. The exhausted, freezing, terrified woman who just lost everything wants nothing more than to crawl inside that shirt and hide.
I reach out and take the fabric from his large hands. Our fingers brush. A sharp current snaps between our skin in the dry, dusty air. Dante's eyes flare at the contact.
I pull my ruined La Diosa shirt over my head. I do not turn around. I let the torn pink fabric drop to the dusty floor. I stand before him in my black lace bra.
Dante stops breathing.
His dark eyes drop to my chest. He stares at my full curves, at the pale skin exposed to the cold air. The hypervigilant guard goes silent. Something else surfaces in its place. He looks at me like I am the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
I unbutton my ruined jeans and step out of them, tossing them aside before I pull his henley over my head. The soft fabric swallows me. The hem drops past my thighs. The sleeves hang past my fingertips. I sink into the scent of gun oil, rain, and him. It is the safest I have felt all night.
I roll the long sleeves up to my elbows. I look back up at him.
Dante has not moved an inch, watching me wrap myself in his scent. The veins in his arms bulge against his skin. He looks like a man being hunted by his own memories.
"Better?" I ask, my voice soft. Sassy. Testing the waters.
"Claimed.” The word vibrates against my skin. The word is barely audible, rough and broken.
He steps forward. The space between us vanishes. He looms over me, a bare-chested wall of heat and muscle. His large hand comes up. His rough, calloused fingers wrap gently around my throat. His hand isn't meant to restrain me; it's a branding of the skin.
"Dante," I breathe.
"You sleep in the bed," he commands, his voice a dark, feral rumble. "I will take the door."
"You aren't going to sleep?"
"Sleep is a luxury I haven't earned today." His thumb strokes the sensitive skin beneath my jaw. The touch sends a wild rush of heat straight down to my toes. "I will keep you safe. I will keep you here. The city burns before they touch you again."
He drops his hand abruptly. The loss of contact feels like a physical shock. He turns his back to me and marches toward the door, taking his position on the cold, hard floor against the barricade. He pulls a combat knife from his boot and rests it across his knee.
I stand in the middle of the dusty, ruined luxury suite, swallowed by his shirt. The scent of him is everywhere. The memory of his rough hand on my throat burns into my skin.
He is a traumatized, violent mafia enforcer who just kidnapped me. I should be planning my escape. I should be terrified.
I walk over to the bare mattress. I pull my legs up to my chest, wrapping his shirt tight around my knees. I stare at his broad, heavily tattooed chest as he guards the door in the dim moonlight.
The realization curdles in my gut.
I am not running anywhere.
