Anastasia sat rigidly in the plush leather seat of the car, her spine taut as if bound by invisible wires. Her eyes stayed glued to the window, watching the blur of the city pass by in streaks of silver and blue. The chill of the glass barely cooled the fire simmering beneath her skin. Her lips still tingled—no, burned—from his kiss.
But it wasn't just the kiss that unsettled her. It was the words—the venom-laced confession Dante had breathed against her cheek, so cruelly honest it cut deeper than any blade. She could still hear it echoing in her head:
"You make me want to punish you in ways that would make you scream in pleasure. That's how much I hate you, for breaking my heart and still not letting it go."
A tremor ran through her and she clenched her thighs, balling her fists tightly in the fabric of her skirt. Her knuckles went white, yet she refused to meet his gaze, even though she could feel it—burning into her profile like a branding iron.
Dante Montgomery.
