CHAPTER 2

**Chapter 2** **Sera’s POV** He didn’t give me time to catch my breath. The second I said “Make me,” Dante moved. One hard pull and I was off the couch, spun, and shoved face-first against the wall. My hands came up on instinct, but he caught both wrists and pinned them above my head with one of his. His other hand yanked my hips back against him. I felt how hard he was—thick, heavy, completely unapologetic. I laughed, low and sharp, and slammed my head back. I missed his nose by an inch. He growled, the sound vibrating against my spine, and bit down on the side of my neck hard enough to sting. “Still fighting,” he muttered against my skin. “Always.” I twisted hard, broke one wrist free, and drove my elbow into his side. The impact landed solid. He exhaled roughly but didn’t let go. Instead he spun me around again, gripped my jaw, and kissed me like he was trying to punish me for existing. I bit his lip. Blood bloomed between us for the second time tonight. He groaned into my mouth and kissed me harder, messier, all teeth and heat. We stumbled across the room in a tangle of hands and force. My back hit the edge of a low table. Something expensive crashed to the floor. Neither of us looked. I shoved his half-torn shirt off his shoulders. He yanked my top over my head and threw it aside. The second my skin met his, the fight shifted—still violent, still a battle for control, but now soaked in raw want. He lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist and scraped my nails down his back hard enough to leave marks. He snarled and carried me toward the wide couch near the windows, dropping us both onto it with enough force that the air left my lungs. I rolled, tried to get on top. He let me for three seconds—just long enough for me to feel the illusion of control—then flipped us and pinned my wrists again. “Yield,” he said, voice rough. I smiled up at him, blood on my teeth. “Make me.” His eyes flashed something bright and inhuman for a fraction of a second. Then he kissed me so deeply I forgot how to breathe. Clothes came off in pieces. His belt. My pants. The last barriers between us disappeared under impatient hands. When he finally pushed inside me it was one hard, relentless thrust that dragged a broken sound from both of us. I arched up to meet him, refusing to just take it. Every time he tried to set a punishing pace, I rolled my hips and forced him deeper on my terms. Every time I tried to flip us, he used his weight and strength to keep me under him. It was a war. A filthy, gasping, blood-smeared war. He bit my shoulder. I sank my teeth into his forearm. The taste of him—salt and iron and heat—only made me hungrier. Sweat slicked our skin. The couch scraped against the floor with every thrust. Somewhere in the chaos I realized I was making sounds I hadn’t made in years, and the knowledge only pissed me off more. I dug my heels into his back and pulled him harder into me, punishing us both. When the o****m hit, it tore through me like violence. My body clamped down around him and I bit his shoulder to keep from crying out his name. The pain of it pushed him over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, guttural snarl against my throat, hips jerking as he emptied inside me. For several long seconds the only sound was our ragged breathing. Dante’s weight stayed heavy on top of me, face pressed to the side of my neck. I could feel the unnatural heat of his skin. The faint tremor still running through his muscles. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were dark again, but something restless still moved behind them. He brushed a thumb across the smear of blood on my lower lip. “You’re not leaving tonight,” he said quietly. I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. We both already knew I would try. --- I woke to the sound of running water. Morning light cut across the floor in thin gray bars. My body ached in the best and worst ways—bruises on my hips, teeth marks on my shoulder, the deep, satisfying soreness between my legs. The other side of the bed was empty. The shower was running behind a closed door. I sat up slowly. My clothes were gone. Only his black shirt lay draped over a chair. I pulled it on. It fell to mid-thigh, still carrying his scent. I crossed the room on quiet feet and tried the main door. Locked. Of course. I stood there for a second, jaw tight, then turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. We were high. High enough that most people would have considered it suicide. But I had jumped from worse. I unlatched the window and pushed it open. Cold morning air rushed in. Below, the city was already moving. A black car was parked directly beneath the window. I didn’t give myself time to think. I climbed onto the ledge, braced my bare feet against the frame, and jumped. The fall was short and brutal. I hit the roof of the car hard enough to dent the metal and knock the air from my lungs. Pain shot up my legs, but nothing broke. I rolled off the hood, landed in a crouch, and forced myself to keep moving. His shirt flapped around my thighs as I cut into the nearest alley. Behind me, I thought I heard a window slam open. I didn’t look back. By the time I reached the next street, I had already disappeared into the morning crowd—just another half-dressed girl in a man’s shirt, easily mistaken for someone who’d had a wild night. I didn’t stop until I was three blocks away and certain I wasn’t being followed. Only then did I lean against a brick wall and breathe. My body still carried the memory of him. The bruises. The ache. The taste of his blood. And underneath all of it, the cold, clear knowledge that I had just walked away from the most dangerous man I had ever taken to bed. I should have felt victorious. Instead, I felt hunted. And the most dangerous part was that some reckless part of me already wanted him to come find me.