Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Mara
I’m sitting beside Noah in an SUV on our way to a house in Todt Hill on Staten Island. I’m relieved Dante didn’t leave me behind and glad he let Noah come. I guess after what happened last night, he wasn’t taking any chances. But I meant what I said. I don’t want to die.
“Word is out,” Matthaeus says, reading something on his phone. Dante takes a turn onto a winding, tree-lined street with fewer houses than the last, twelve-foot walls surrounding each property. “She’s Grigori property.”
I should probably be offended by that but I’m not. Not very modern of me, I know, but I want to be Dante’s. Because he’s mine. He was always meant to be mine. I catch his eye in the rear-view mirror and feel a tremor go through me. I want to be alone with him. I want to feel his weight on me. His mouth on my mouth. Him inside me.
My neck and face flush with heat.
He shifts his gaze back to the road, but I don’t miss the slight grin on his face. I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking. If he’s thinking it too.
“St. James?” he asks.
“Still at the hotel.”
“Because he’s waiting for a visit. If he knew about the attack, I’m going to kill him.”
I know this isn’t just talk. I know Dante means every word and when I see the image of him beating Alvarez to death, I shudder.
“This one is ours,” Matthaeus says, and we pull onto a driveway where the tall gates slowly open. Two armed guards stand just inside the property. From here, I can’t see the house. The place seems big and from a quick count of soldiers, well protected.
Dante glances at Noah in the rear-view mirror. I know Noah doesn’t like him. He then shifts his glance to me momentarily before shifting it back to the road.
“You two will get settled here. There are more than two dozen armed men on the property. You’ll be protected. Eat something. Relax. Get some sleep. You didn’t sleep at all on the flight.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“Matthaeus and I have an errand to run.”
“Visiting that man. St. James.”
He doesn’t reply, just slows the car to a stop. He doesn’t kill the engine. After climbing out he opens my door and helps me, then closes it. We stand, me with my back pressed against the SUV, him leaning on one arm, hand directly over my head. The other hand closes over my pelvic bone.
“Promise me you’re going to eat something.” I’m too skinny. I know.
“I’ll eat. Thanks for letting Noah come.”
“That was Cristiano’s idea.”
“Why don’t you like him?”
He glances over the top of the SUV I guess at Noah. “I don’t dislike him,” he says when he looks back at me.
“Word play.” I don’t look away from him. I feel like every time I see him could be the last time. “I’m scared for you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He leans in close, tilting his head, scruff of his jaw against my cheek as his breath raises goosebumps along the nape of my neck. I feel him inhale, feel his lips on the underside of my jaw just below my ear and that sensation goes right to my core. I wrap my hands around his shoulders, reassured by the sheer strength of this man.
“You do things to me,” he whispers, the words almost a rumble rather than sound.
My nipples tighten as they brush against his chest, too many layers between us. His hardness presses against me and butterfly wings flutter inside my stomach. He draws back a little, dipping his head to touch his forehead to mine, and looks at me.
“Come back to me,” I say.
“You’re dramatic.”
Not dramatic but realistic. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll come back to me.” I wonder if he realizes how much I mean this. How much I need him to come back. How much my own life depends on his. Because I don’t want to die. But I also don’t want to live if he dies.
He kisses me and I close my eyes. It’s a tender kiss, not hurried but like a promise itself. The start of something.
When he draws back and I open my eyes, he brushes his thumb across my cheek. It comes away wet.
“I promise,” he says. “I’ll come back to you. Always.”
I blink again, unable to hold back the fat tears that drop heavy onto my cheeks. I hug him, press my face into his chest and squeeze my eyes shut to inhale his scent so deeply there’s no room for anything else but him. Just him. And then it’s time to go. Someone clears their throat and Dante’s hands come to my arms, unwinding them from around his neck. He touches his forehead to mine one more time, then kisses the tip of my nose. He takes my hand and walks me to Noah who is standing nearby, jaw tense, eyes narrowed on Dante.
Dante’s expression changes. Cocky Dante surfaces.
“Don’t look like that,” he says to Noah and ruffles his hair like he’s a kid.
“Fuck off,” Noah brushes his hand away, fixing his hair that is now standing up in all directions. He makes a point of taking my hand and giving Dante a rebellious grin. I think what he really wants to do is flip him off. A few moments later, Noah and I are inside the double front doors and a trio of SUVs heads off the property.