Chapter 6: The Devil's Bargain

The tattoo throbbed with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of the permanent claim Dante had etched into her skin three days ago. Elara stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, watching the city sprawl below like a kingdom she could never again be part of. The Volkov crest over her heart had healed quickly, but the psychological wound of being branded like cattle still festered.

She heard the elevator chime and tensed. Dante had been gone since dawn, handling what he cryptically called "Ivan's latest provocation." The attack after the charity gala had unleashed something primal in him—a cold, calculating fury that made the air around him vibrate with barely contained violence.

"You're brooding again," his voice came from behind her, warm with familiar amusement.

"I'm thinking." She didn't turn around, couldn't bear to see the satisfaction in his eyes when he looked at his handiwork. "About how little I actually know about the man who owns me."

"You know everything that matters."

"Do I?" She spun to face him, taking in his appearance. His usually immaculate suit was rumpled, there was blood on his knuckles, and something dark had settled in his expression. "I know you can kill without hesitation. I know you have enough money to buy entire city blocks. I know you're obsessed with me to the point of madness. But I don't know why."

Dante loosened his tie, the gesture somehow more intimate than if he'd undressed completely. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." The word came out fierce, desperate. "I want to know why Ivan Morozov hates you enough to start a war. I want to know what made you into... this." She gestured at him, taking in the predatory grace, the casual violence that clung to him like expensive cologne. "I want to know why you've been watching me for six months but only approached me that night."

"And what are you willing to give me in return for these answers?"

The question hung between them like a challenge. Elara's pulse quickened as she recognized the game he was proposing. Information for submission. Truth for surrender. It was dangerous territory, but she was tired of being kept in the dark about her own fate.

"What do you want?"

His smile was slow, predatory. "Your willing participation. No more fighting me, no more dreams of escape. Complete surrender to what we both know you want."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you remain beautifully ignorant, and I remain mysteriously compelling." He moved to the bar, pouring himself three fingers of whiskey. "But we both know you won't refuse. You're too hungry for the truth."

He was right, damn him. The not-knowing was eating her alive, making her feel powerless in a situation where she was already completely at his mercy. At least information might give her some illusion of control.

"One question, one... concession," she said carefully.

"Agreed." He settled into his leather chair, glass in hand, looking every inch the king of his dark domain. "Ask your first question."

Elara perched on the edge of the sofa, her silk robe sliding up her thighs. The gesture wasn't entirely unconscious—if she was going to play this game, she might as well use every weapon at her disposal.

"Why did you kill Viktor Morozov?"

Dante's eyes darkened, and for a moment she thought he might not answer. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of emotion. "Because he raped and murdered a fifteen-year-old girl who worked in one of my clubs."

The blunt statement hit her like a physical blow. Whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't that. "A child?"

"Anya Petrov. She was a runaway from Saint Petersburg, working as a cocktail waitress while she tried to save money for college." His grip tightened on the glass. "Viktor saw her, wanted her, and when she refused his advances, he decided to take what he felt he was owed."

"So you killed him."

"I killed him slowly." The matter-of-fact way he said it made her shiver. "Ivan declared war the next day."

Elara processed this information, trying to reconcile it with her image of Dante as a heartless criminal. The man who'd avenged a murdered child didn't fit neatly into that category.

"My turn," Dante said, setting down his glass. "Take off the robe."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "That's not—"

"A concession is a concession, little bird. You agreed to the terms."

With trembling fingers, she untied the silk belt and let the robe slide from her shoulders. She wore nothing underneath except a pair of black lace panties, the tattoo over her heart dark against her pale skin. Dante's gaze raked over her with hungry appreciation, and despite everything, her body responded to his attention.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "Now ask your second question."

"Why me?" The words came out breathless. "Six months of watching me, and you could have approached me anywhere, anytime. Why wait until that specific night?"

Dante was quiet for a long moment, studying her with those penetrating dark eyes. When he finally answered, his voice was softer than she'd ever heard it.

"Because I saw you sketch that old man in Washington Square Park."

The memory hit her like a physical blow. Six months ago, she'd been sitting on a bench, drawing an elderly homeless veteran who fed pigeons every day. She'd been moved by his gentleness, by the way he treated the birds like old friends.

"You were watching me then?"

"I'd been watching you for weeks by that point. But that day..." He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "You spent two hours drawing him, and when you were finished, you gave him the sketch along with a hundred-dollar bill. You told him it was payment for modeling."

She remembered. The old man had cried when she'd handed him the drawing, saying no one had ever seen him as worth capturing on paper.

"That's when I knew I couldn't just want you," Dante continued. "That's when I knew I had to have you. Because you saw beauty and dignity in someone the rest of the world treated as invisible. Because you have a soul as beautiful as your face."

The confession was more intimate than any physical touch. Elara felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he'd reached inside her chest and caressed her heart.

"Your turn," she whispered.

"Come here."

It wasn't what she'd expected, but she rose from the sofa and moved to stand before his chair. His hands settled on her hips, thumbs tracing the edge of her panties.

"Sit," he commanded.

She straddled his lap, acutely aware of his arousal pressing against her core through the fabric of his pants. His hands roamed her body with possessive familiarity, reacquainting themselves with territory he'd already claimed.

"Ask your third question."

It was becoming difficult to think clearly with his hands on her skin, his mouth pressing kisses to her throat just below the pulse point. But she forced herself to focus.

"What's your endgame with Ivan? How does this war end?"

"With his death." The answer was immediate, certain. "There can be no other resolution. Not after what he's tried to do to you."

"And after he's dead? What happens to us?"

"That's two questions." His teeth grazed her collarbone, and she gasped. "But I'll allow it. After Ivan is dead, we disappear for a while. I have properties in Italy, in the Caribbean. We'll go somewhere safe while things settle."

"Together?"

"Forever."

The word hung between them, heavy with promise and threat. Elara realized that Dante wasn't just planning to keep her as a temporary obsession—he was planning a future where she was permanently part of his world.

"My turn," he said, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me."

It was the cruelest question he could have asked, because they both knew the answer. Despite everything—the kidnapping, the forced tattoo, the constant threats—she did want him. Her body craved his touch, her mind was fascinated by his complexity, and some dark part of her soul recognized him as its match.

"I want you," she whispered.

"Again. Louder."

"I want you." The admission came out stronger this time, more certain.

"Good girl." His hands guided her hips, creating delicious friction that made her arch against him. "One more question. Make it count."

Elara's mind was hazy with desire, but she forced herself to think. What did she need to know most? What truth would give her the power to navigate this dangerous new world?

"What's your weakness?" she asked. "Everyone has one. What's yours?"

Dante's hands stilled on her body. For a moment, she thought he might refuse to answer. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"You."

The simple word carried the weight of absolute truth. In that moment, Elara realized that while she might be his prisoner, he was equally trapped by his need for her. They were bound together by obsession and desire, each holding the key to the other's destruction.

"You're my weakness, my salvation, and my damnation all wrapped up in one perfect package," he continued. "You make me want things I swore I'd never want again. You make me vulnerable in ways that could get us both killed."

The confession shifted something fundamental between them. The balance of power, which had seemed so clearly tilted in his favor, suddenly felt more equal. They were both prisoners of this dark passion, both victims of forces beyond their control.

"Show me," she breathed against his lips. "Show me how much you want me."

What happened next wasn't the careful orchestration of pleasure she'd come to expect from him. It was desperate, hungry, born of truths too dangerous to speak aloud. They came together with the fury of a storm, all pretense of control abandoned in favor of raw need.

Later, as they lay tangled together on the leather chair, Elara realized that the game had changed. She was no longer just Dante's captive—she was his willing conspirator, his partner in this beautiful madness they'd created together.

The thought should have terrified her.

Instead, it made her feel alive.