Chapter 1: The Scent of Him

Chapter 1: The Scent of Him

Four nights.

For four nights, the apartment had been a tomb, silent and still. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic thumping of Jessica’s own heart. She stared at the half-finished logo on her monitor, the sleek lines of a corporate client’s branding blurring into an incomprehensible mess. Her focus, once a sharp and reliable tool of her trade, was gone. It had packed its bags and flown to Italy with him.

Dante.

His name was a phantom on her lips, a constant ache in her chest. Four days ago, he had kissed her with a consuming urgency, his hands framing her face as if memorizing its every line. “Just business, mia cara,” he’d murmured, his voice a low, gravelly promise. “A few days. I’ll be back before you know it.”

But she knew. Even then, she’d felt the shift, the subtle tension in his powerful shoulders, the guarded look in his dark, intense eyes. His business was a black box she wasn’t allowed to open. He was an international investor, a man of immense wealth and power who moved in circles she could barely imagine. And she was a freelance graphic designer who liked to read in bed and sketch in the park. Their worlds didn't just collide; they orbited each other in a precarious, passionate dance she was terrified would one day spin out of control.

With a sigh, Jessica pushed away from her desk. The apartment, usually her cozy sanctuary, felt vast and empty without him. His presence was a force of nature that filled every corner, his unique scent clinging to the upholstery, his expensive leather jacket slung over the back of a dining chair, his powerful energy crackling in the very air. Now, the silence was suffocating.

She wandered into the bedroom, her bare feet cold on the hardwood floor. The king-sized bed looked like a lonely, white desert. She traced the indentation his head had left on his pillow, inhaling deeply. Faintly, so faintly it made her heart clench, she caught his scent: sandalwood, a hint of expensive citrus, and underneath it all, something more primal. Something that was purely, intoxicatingly Dante. It was fading. With every hour he was gone, a little more of him vanished from her world, and a cold, familiar insecurity began to creep back in.

It was an old ghost, a remnant of past relationships where she was always too much or not enough. Too quiet. Too lanky. Her breasts too small, her emotions too close to the surface. She had spent years building walls around her heart, believing herself to be fundamentally unlovable in some small, crucial way.

Then Dante had stormed into her life, a force of nature in a tailored suit, and demolished those walls with frightening ease. He worshipped the very things she’d been taught to hide. He’d trace the long line of her leg with a reverence that made her tremble, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her knee. He’d kiss the hollow of her throat and tell her she tasted of starlight. He’d cup her small breasts in his large, warm hands and whisper, “Perfetto,” against her skin until she believed him.

He made her feel like a goddess. Which was why, when he was gone, she felt like a fraud. A pretender to a throne that could be snatched away at any moment.

A deep, coiling heat began to build low in her belly. It was more than just loneliness. It was a physical, undeniable ache. Her body, traitorous and wise, knew what time of the month it was. It was a clockwork torment, this monthly peak where her entire being seemed to cry out for him. It was a biological imperative, a desperate, primal pull that she was sure he could feel thousands of miles away. It had to be the reason for the almost supernatural intensity of their connection, a secret rhythm that pulsed between them. Now, that rhythm was a frantic, unanswered drumbeat against her own skin.

Giving up on any pretense of productivity, she stripped off her clothes and pulled on one of his old, grey t-shirts. The soft cotton enveloped her, smelling more of laundry detergent than of him, a pale imitation that only sharpened her longing. She slid into bed, curling up on his side, wrapping herself in the sheets that still held a ghost of his warmth. She clutched his pillow, pressing her face into it, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Sleep was a shallow, restless sea. She dreamt of his hands, his mouth, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress. She dreamt of his voice, that deep rumble that vibrated through her bones, whispering Italian words she didn't understand but whose meaning was unmistakable.

A phantom touch brushed her hip.

She shifted, a soft moan escaping her lips. Just a dream. A cruel, vivid dream.

The mattress dipped behind her.

Her breath hitched. That… that felt real. The subtle shift of weight, the displacement of air. She was a light sleeper, attuned to every creak and groan of the old building. This was different. This was a presence.

Then, a hand, impossibly warm and heavy, settled on the curve of her waist over the thin cotton of his shirt. It wasn't a phantom. It was solid. Real. Fingers spread possessively over her, thumb stroking her side in a slow, familiar pattern that sent a jolt of pure electricity through her system.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage. It couldn’t be. He was in Italy. He would have called. He always called.

A wave of scent washed over her, and this time it was no faded memory. It was rich, potent, overwhelming. Sandalwood. Citrus. And that dark, animalistic musk that was his alone. It filled her lungs, hijacked her senses, and bypassed her brain entirely, speaking directly to the desperate, aching core of her.

A low chuckle rumbled right beside her ear, the vibration moving through the pillow and into her skull. It was a sound of pure, masculine satisfaction. A predator returning to his den.

“Did you miss me, tesoro?”

Jessica’s eyes flew open, staring into the oppressive darkness of the room. She wasn't dreaming. He was here. In her bed. He had crossed an ocean, silent as a shadow, and slipped back into her life without a single word of warning. And from the heat of the hand branding her skin and the possessive tone of his voice, she knew he hadn't just come back to sleep.

He had come to claim what was his.