Anastasia stood frozen, her breath caught halfway in her throat, as Dante's arm coiled tighter around her waist like a possessive serpent. The weight of his touch, firm and unyielding, sent a ripple through her already frayed composure. His body heat radiated through the layers of her wedding gown, branding her like a silent warning. Slowly, she turned and lifted her head to look at him, and their faces hovered dangerously close, a mere breath apart.
Dante's eyes, as always, were impenetrable—those ice-black depths a frozen sea that revealed nothing. They gave no glimpse into the mind behind them, and that maddening ambiguity made her heart pound louder in her chest. She searched his gaze, hoping, praying, for something to anchor onto. But all she found was that same cold mask, carved with precision and cruelty. And yet, something about the stillness in that moment stirred a reckless impulse in her.
