Chapter 1 - The Weight of Scars
The sterile smell of the private clinic’s luxury recovery suite was a far cry from the sour-milk-and-bleach odor of Aurelios.
When I woke up, the white linen sheets felt entirely too soft, like clouds woven by people who had never worried about rent or grocery coupons. But the moment I tried to shift my weight, a sharp, white-hot agony ripped across my back, tearing a gasp from my throat.
"Don't move," a low voice commanded from the shadows of the room.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I turned my head, my dry lips parting as my eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through heavy velvet drapes.
Dante Moretti sat in a high-backed leather wingback chair in the corner. He had shed his suit jacket; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. In his right hand, he held a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, but he wasn't drinking. He was watching me with a stillness that made my skin prickle.
"Where... where is my bag?" I rasped, my throat feeling like sandpaper. "I have to get back to my apartment. My shift—"
"Your shift is over, Ms. Hart," Dante interrupted, his voice smooth, dark, and utterly immovable. He stood up, placing the glass down with a soft clink on the side table, and walked toward the bed. "In fact, you won't be returning to Aurelios. Ever again."
Panic flared hot and sharp in my chest. "You can't just—you don't own me! I saved your son, yes, but—"
"You saved my heir," Dante corrected, stopping right beside the mattress. He looked down at me, his dark eyes tracing the bandages wrapped securely around my shoulders and upper back. "You took a wall of shattered crystal meant for my five-year-old boy. In my world, actions have consequences. And debts must be paid."
"I don't want your money," I whispered, gripping the edge of the sheet. "Just let me leave."
Dante leaned in close, the scent of expensive cedar and rain clinging to him. His gaze burned into mine with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "I didn't offer you money, Elena. I offered you a fact."
May you like
He reached out, his long, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my forehead. The touch was impossibly tender for a man whispered about in dark alleys across Chicago, yet it carried the heavy weight of absolute ownership.
"You broke the cardinal rule," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "You let me see your face. And now, your life belongs to me."
