Chapter 2: The Taste of Morning

Chapter 2: The Taste of Morning

Jessica woke slowly, adrift in a warm, blissful haze. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the blinds, striping the tangled white sheets with gold. Every muscle in her body hummed with a pleasant, well-used ache. The lonely, cavernous bed of the night before was gone, replaced by this cocoon of shared warmth. The scent she’d so desperately clung to on his pillow now saturated the air, her skin, her hair. It was the scent of him, potent and real, a brand of ownership left on her very being.

The memory of his return wasn’t a dream. It was a searing imprint on her flesh. His hands, his mouth, the shocking, silent way he’d appeared in her darkness and answered the desperate call of her body with a ferocity that had stolen her breath and silenced her questions. He hadn't just made love to her; he had consumed her, pulling her back from the precipice of her own insecurity and anchoring her to the undeniable reality of his possession.

A new scent drifted in from the living area, pulling her from her reverie. Coffee, rich and dark. And bacon.

Pushing herself up on her elbows, she saw she was still wearing his grey t-shirt, now rumpled and clinging to her skin. The other side of the bed was empty, but the indentation was fresh. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet finding the familiar hardwood floor, and padded softly out of the bedroom.

There he was. In her small, sun-drenched kitchen, Dante stood with his back to her, a dish towel tucked into the waistband of his tailored black trousers. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing powerful, hair-dusted forearms. He moved with an easy, confident grace, flipping bacon in her cast-iron skillet as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The sight was so jarringly domestic, so tenderly normal, it made her heart ache with a fierce, protective love. This man, who commanded unseen empires and spoke in hushed, urgent tones of 'business' in Italy, was making her breakfast.

She leaned against the doorframe, just watching him. The dangerous power he radiated was still there, a low hum beneath the surface, but here, in her space, it was tempered by an intimacy that was reserved only for her.

He must have sensed her presence. Without turning, he spoke, his voice a low, warm rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. “You should have woken me when you got up.”

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” she replied, her voice soft and sleep-husky.

He turned then, a fork in his hand and a slow, devastating smirk on his lips. His dark eyes swept over her, taking in her bare legs and his t-shirt clinging to her small breasts. It was the same look of raw appreciation that had demolished her defenses from the very beginning. “I was. I just wanted coffee more than I wanted to stay in bed. A momentary lapse in judgment.”

She smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile. “How did you even get in? I locked the door.”

“I have my ways,” he said, his smirk deepening. He gestured with the fork toward the counter. “Coffee’s fresh. Sit.”

He made it sound like a command wrapped in a velvet suggestion. She obeyed, sliding onto one of the stools at her small breakfast bar as he expertly plated bacon and scrambled eggs. He set the plate in front of her, then leaned over the counter, his face close to hers, and kissed her. It was a slow, deliberate kiss, tasting of coffee and him, a sweet domesticity that felt more intoxicating than any wine.

“Eat,” he murmured against her lips. “You need your strength.”

The bliss was perfect, a fragile, sun-lit bubble. And then it popped.

His phone, a sleek black burner she’d seen him use before, buzzed sharply on the counter beside the salt shaker.

Dante’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, hard focus. The easy smile tightened into a grim line. He picked up the phone, his back straightening as he turned away from her, creating a wall as solid as steel.

“Pronto,” he answered, his voice devoid of all its earlier warmth.

Jessica’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. She couldn't understand the torrent of rapid-fire Italian that followed, but she didn't need to. The tone was its own language. It was a language of command, of clipped, brutal efficiency. Words like ‘risolto’ (resolved) and ‘nessuna traccia’ (no trace) cut through the air like shards of glass. His posture was rigid, his free hand clenching into a fist at his side.

This wasn't the man making her breakfast. This was the other Dante. The stranger who flew to Italy on a moment's notice, the man whose business was a locked box. The man who could slip into her apartment like a phantom in the night. The silence in her apartment was no longer peaceful; it was heavy with the things he would not say.

He ended the call with a curt, “Bene,” and slid the phone back into his pocket. When he turned back to her, the charming smile was back in place, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. The coldness lingered there, a shadow in their dark depths.

“Sorry about that,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Work never sleeps.”

“Who was that?” Jessica asked, her voice smaller than she intended. The eggs on her plate suddenly looked greasy and unappetizing.

“Just a colleague. Tying up a loose end from the trip.” He picked up his own coffee cup, his movements casual, but she could see the tension in the line of his jaw.

“A loose end?” she pressed, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. “Dante, you were supposed to be gone for days. You show up in the middle of the night without a word. And that call… it didn't sound like you were discussing stock prices.”

He set his cup down and rounded the counter, his large frame crowding her space, deliberately overwhelming her. He gently took the fork from her hand and set it on the plate, his touch warm and firm.

“Mia cara, my business is incredibly boring. Numbers, logistics, timezone headaches. I came back early because the deal closed ahead of schedule.” He leaned in, his scent enveloping her, a potent drug designed to confuse her senses. “And I didn't call because I couldn't wait another second to see you. I wanted to surprise you. Was it not a good surprise?”

His thumb stroked the back of her hand, sending shivers up her arm. He was using his body, their connection, as a shield. He was hiding in plain sight.

“It was,” she admitted, her resolve wavering under the intensity of his gaze. “But I worry.”

“There is nothing to worry about,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. He slid his hands from her shoulders down her back, his fingers tracing the outline of her spine through the thin cotton. “The only thing you need to worry about is if we have enough coffee to get through the morning I have planned for us.”

He kissed her then, deeply and possessively, a kiss that was both a promise of pleasure and a clear dismissal of her questions. And as her body responded with its own traitorous, immediate desire, a cold, terrifying thought surfaced in her mind.

The man who owned her body, who could soothe her fears with a single touch, was hiding a world from her. A world of burner phones and cold-eyed commands, a world that moved in the shadows while she slept. A world that, she was suddenly, sickeningly certain, could destroy her.