One voice belonged to her father, and the other was unfamiliar.
“You’re asking for too much,” her father growled.
“I’m asking for what was promised,” the man said. Lark’s pulse quickened. Nobody spoke to Rafael Santos like that and lived long enough to regret it.
Curiosity got the better of her. Carefully, she unlocked the bedroom door. Dante normally locked it from the outside every night, but she’d figured out weeks ago how to trip the old mechanism with a tiny metal nail file she’d stolen from one of the maids. It was one small rebellion and one tiny piece of freedom.
The hallway was empty as she slipped out, moving silently toward the staircase overlooking the grand foyer below. The second she looked down, her breath caught. The stranger standing in the middle of her father’s office looked dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with guns or size. He wore a dark suit that fit his tall frame perfectly, but there was something too calm about him—too controlled. He seemed almost predatory. His dark blond hair brushed the collar of his jacket, and a scar cut through one eyebrow. His expression never changed as her father paced furiously in front of him.
“You’ll get your money,” Rafael snapped.
“This was never about money.” The stranger’s voice was smooth and cold. Lark leaned closer against the railing, trying to hear more, but then Dante appeared from the opposite hallway. Her stomach dropped when his eyes found her instantly. Fuck. Dante’s entire body tensed as he stalked toward the stairs. Lark hurried backward, but it was too late. He grabbed her arm the second she reached the hallway.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
Lark jerked away from him. “I was trying to listen to their conversation.”
“You’re not supposed to be out of your room,” he snapped.
“And yet here I am,” she sassed, holding her arms wide as though trying to prove her point.
His jaw clenched so tightly she thought his teeth might crack. “If your father sees you?—”
“What?” she whispered harshly. “He’ll lock me up tighter? Beat me? Sell me off to some psycho?” Dante flinched—actually flinched, and that terrified her more than anything else, because it meant she’d guessed too close to the truth.
Lark stared at him. “What does he want with me?”
“You need to go back to your room,” Dante insisted.
“Just answer the question, Dante,” she whispered. His silence said everything, and it felt as though ice had spread through her chest. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “He really is planning something like that, isn’t he?”
Dante dragged a hand through his dark hair and looked toward the staircase like he was running out of time. “Lark—” The office doors downstairs suddenly opened, and heavy footsteps echoed through the foyer. Dante cursed under his breath and shoved her backward into the nearest empty room before slamming the door shut behind them.
Lark stumbled into the darkness of the storage room. Shelves lined the walls, and the air smelled like whiskey and expensive cigars. Dante stood directly in front of her, his chest rising hard beneath his black dress shirt. He was standing too close—way too close.
“You need to stay quiet,” he ordered. Lark barely heard him because all she could focus on was the heat radiating off his body and the way his hand was still wrapped around her wrist. The only thing she noticed was the way he looked at her, like he was fighting himself every second that they were alone together.
Voices passed outside the door, and she heard her father laugh darkly. “You’ll have what you want soon enough.” The stranger answered something too low for her to hear, and Lark’s skin crawled. Dante slowly released her wrist, but neither of them moved. The tiny room suddenly felt suffocating.
“You’re scared,” she whispered.
Dante looked away immediately. “No, I’m not,” he said.
“You are,” she insisted.
“I’m scared for you, Lark,” he admitted. The words hit her like a punch to her gut as silence crashed between them. Lark’s heart pounded so hard she could hear it. Dante seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late. His expression hardened instantly as he stepped back, but the damage was already done.
“You care about me,” she whispered.
“No, I don’t care about you,” he spat.
“You’re lying,” she insisted.
His eyes flashed dangerously. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Then tell me.” Her voice softened. “Tell me why you look miserable every time you lock my door.”
Dante stared at her for a long moment before laughing bitterly under his breath. “You think I’m the villain here?” he asked quietly.
