25. Chapter 25 Natalie

Chapter 25 Natalie

M y skin is warm, sticky with sweat and blood, a crimson map drying across my body. Luca’s lifeless eyes stare up at nothing, but Dante’s gaze—burning, wild—holds me captive. His eyes, dark and untamed, have always been mine.

I should feel something—guilt, horror, anything—but all I think about is how to capture this moment. The raw energy pulses through my veins, begging to be transformed into something real, something lasting.

“We can’t let this go to waste,” I whisper, the words barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

Dante, still inside me, his body still thrumming with the aftershock of violence, turns his head slightly. His eyes meet mine, and I know he can see my need to give this moment permanence.

“What do you want, Moya Koroleva?” His voice is rough, worn from exertion, but there’s a softness there too. An understanding that runs deeper than words.

“I want to create,” I murmur, the urgency building in my chest. “I need to… create.”

A slow, dark smile spreads across Dante’s lips. His gaze flickers with something possessive, something that says he’s all mine and I’m all his. He straightens, a towering presence even in the aftermath of chaos. “Then create my dark muse. Show me what’s inside that brilliant mind of yours.”

He barks an order, his voice slicing through the stillness of the room. His men enter swiftly, eyes on the floor, knowing better than to look at me—at what we’ve done. They know the boundaries, the unspoken rules that govern Dante’s world, and they move like their lives depend on it.

In moments, the space around me is transformed. An easel stands where Luca’s blood still seeps into the cracks of the concrete. A blank canvas waits to be touched, to be stained with the remnants of what we’ve created.

The men are gone as quickly as they came, leaving us alone in the dim, echoing space. The cuts Dante left on my body sting with every movement, the blood mingling with Luca’s as it drips down my skin. But the pain is nothing compared to the fire burning inside me, demanding release.

I stand on shaky legs, feeling Dante’s gaze heavy on me, a constant presence that drives me forward. My fingers tremble as I reach down, dipping them into the warm, viscous pool of blood. The first touch of it against the canvas sends a shiver through me, the act of creation merging with the destruction that lingers in the air.

Dante stays close behind me, close enough that I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. He’s watching, waiting, the tension thick as the blood staining my skin.

The cuts on my arms and torso sting as I move, the blood trickling down in thin lines that I smear across the canvas, mixing with Luca’s to create something raw and primal. Each stroke is a release, a way to channel the chaos inside me into something tangible, something that speaks of the darkness I’ve unleashed.

“Show me, solnyshko,” Dante murmurs, his voice a low growl that vibrates through the room. “Show me everything.”

I don’t hold back. I let the blood flow, let it soak into the canvas, into my skin, into the very essence of who I am. Every stroke is deliberate, every smear a reflection of the violence and passion that define us. The canvas becomes a mirror, reflecting the twisted beauty of what we’ve done.

Dante steps closer, his hand hovering just above my waist, the heat of his presence grounding me even as I lose myself in the creation. The pain from the cuts is a sharp, constant reminder of the price we’ve paid, and yet it fuels me, drives me to push further.

When I finally step back, breathless and trembling, I stare at the chaotic blend of reds and blacks, sharp lines and smudged edges that have taken shape before me. It’s raw, it’s brutal, and yet there’s something…off. Something that keeps it from being complete.

“It’s missing something,” I whisper, almost to myself.

Dante’s hand slides around my waist, pulling me close, his body a solid wall of heat against my back. “And what’s that, moy voron?” he asks, his voice a dark caress against my ear.

I look at the canvas, at the blood dried on my fingers, the cuts that still ooze crimson. “Well,” I murmur, a dark smile curling my lips, “we have Luca’s blood, and my blood… All we’re missing is yours.”

For a moment, there’s only silence, the air between us thick with the weight of my words. Then Dante chuckles, low and dangerous, the sound vibrating through me as he reaches for the blade still slick with my blood.

His hand is steady as he draws the blade across his palm, the cut deep and precise. Blood wells up, dark and rich, and he holds it out to me, his eyes never leaving mine. “Take it, Natalie. Finish it.”

I dip my fingers into the warm pool of his blood, feeling the power of it, the connection it seals between us. And then, with a final, deliberate stroke, I smear it across the canvas, completing the masterpiece we’ve created together.

Dante’s arm tightens around me as he pulls me close, his blood mingling with mine, with Luca’s, on the canvas that stands as a testament to what we’ve become.

“It’s perfect,” I whisper, feeling the final piece click into place. “We’re perfect.”

“You’re perfect, solynshko.” Dante's response is simple. Clear.

And in that moment, with Dante’s blood still warm on my hands and the evidence of our twisted love smeared across the canvas, I know that this is who we are—this is what we’ve created… And it’s everything.

I can still feel the sting of the cuts Dante left on my body, each one a burning reminder of who I am now—of who I’ve become.

But beneath the pain, beneath the blood, there’s something else—something alive, something dangerous. My heart races, each beat a reminder that I’m still here, still breathing, still wanting. And the truth of that want scares me as much as it thrills me.

I look at Dante, his eyes locked on mine, the intensity in them pulling me in, deeper and deeper until there’s nothing else. I should be terrified, but all I can feel is the pull—the dark, irresistible pull of him, of us, of this moment that feels like it’s been building forever.

My breath hitches as I rise up on my toes, closing the distance between us. My lips find his, soft at first, testing the waters. It’s the first time I’ve taken this step, the first time I’ve reached out to him with something more than fear or defiance. It’s a choice, and that realization sends a jolt through me.

The kiss is gentle, almost hesitant, but the undercurrent of tension is electric, buzzing between us like a live wire. I feel Dante freeze for just a heartbeat, caught off guard by my sudden boldness, but then his hands are on me, pulling me closer, grounding me in his overwhelming presence.

And just like that, the fear evaporates, replaced by something fierce and hungry. I deepen the kiss, my fingers tangling in his hair as I press myself against him. There’s no going back now. Not after this. Not after I’ve tasted the darkness on his lips and found that I crave it.

I bite down on his lower lip, hard enough to taste the sharp tang of blood. The metallic flavor spreads across my tongue, sending a shiver of satisfaction through me. Dante growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my mouth, and I feel his grip on me tighten, his control slipping as he surrenders to the moment.

The air between us crackles with tension, with the sheer force of the connection that’s finally broken free. I can feel him hardening against me, the heat of his arousal matching my own. The painting, the blood, everything fades away until there’s only this—only us.

Dante breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes burning with a fire that matches the one raging inside me. “Natalie,” he breathes, his voice rough, like he’s struggling to hold on to the last threads of his control.

But I don’t want him to hold back. Not anymore. I want to see him undone, to watch him lose himself in me the way I’m losing myself in him.

“Dante,” I whisper back, my voice barely more than a breath. It’s an invitation, a challenge, and I see the way it ignites something primal in him.

Without a word, he lifts me off the ground, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries me across the room. His movements are swift, purposeful, driven by the same urgency that’s thrumming through my veins. But there’s a care in his touch, a tenderness that I didn’t expect but that leaves me aching for more.

He pushes open the door to the nearest bathroom, and I’m hit by the cool, damp air. The sound of water echoes off the tiled walls, the floor slick with puddles that reflect the dim light. It’s far from romantic, far from perfect, but in this moment, it’s exactly what I need.

Dante sets me down on the counter, the cold surface a stark contrast to the heat burning between us. His hands are on me in an instant, peeling away the blood-soaked remnants of my clothes with a care that sends a shiver down my spine. Each touch is a promise, each brush of his fingers against my skin a vow that only we understand.

The water’s already running, filling the space with steam, but all I can focus on is the way Dante looks at me, like I’m something precious, something to be revered even in my brokenness. He strips off his own clothes, his movements deliberate, unhurried, giving me time to take in every inch of him, to memorize the way the light catches on the scars and hard lines of his body.

He steps into the shower first, pulling me in after him, and the warmth of the water is a relief, washing away the blood and grime that clings to my skin. But it’s his touch that truly cleanses me, that strips me down to the core of who I am, of what we are together.

He kisses me again, slow and deep, his hands moving over my body with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the violence we’ve just shared. There’s no rush now, no urgency—just the two of us, lost in the moment, in each other. His lips travel down my neck, over my collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, and I can’t hold back the soft moan that escapes me.

Dante’s hands slide down to my hips, lifting me just enough to position himself, and the wait is almost unbearable. When he finally enters me, it’s slow, deliberate, every inch of him filling me with a deep, aching pleasure that’s as overwhelming as it is intoxicating.

I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he moves within me, each thrust slow and sensual, each movement a reminder that this isn’t just about desire. It’s about control, about surrender, about the power we hold over each other. It’s about the darkness that we’ve both embraced, that’s become a part of us.

The water cascades over us, washing away everything but the intensity of this connection, this raw, unfiltered need that binds us together. I feel like I’m drowning in it, in him, and I don’t want to come up for air. Not now. Not ever.

Dante’s pace quickens, his hands gripping my hips tighter as he pulls me closer, deeper, until there’s nothing left between us but the heat of our bodies and the rhythm of our breaths. I can feel the edge of release building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until I can’t hold on anymore.

I come with a soft cry, my body arching against his as the pleasure crashes over me, pulling me under. Dante follows me over the edge, his grip on me unyielding as he shudders, his breath hot against my neck.

But he’s not done. Not yet.

Even as the last waves of our climax fade, Dante’s hands continue to move over my body, his touch soft, reverent, as he cleanses me with the water. It’s a ritual, a way of grounding us both after the storm we’ve just weathered, and I let myself relax into it. Into him.

And then, with a glint of something wicked in his eyes, he drops to his knees before me. His hands slide up my thighs, parting them with a deliberate, confident touch that sends a fresh wave of anticipation coursing through me.

I barely have time to catch my breath before his mouth is on me, his tongue finding that sensitive spot with the ease of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. The sensation is overwhelming, sharp and intense, and I can’t help the gasp that escapes me, my fingers tangling in his hair as I try to hold on to something—anything.

Dante holds me steady, his hands firm on my hips as he devours me with a skill that leaves me breathless. It’s too much, too fast, and yet I can’t bring myself to pull away. I’m too far gone, too lost in the darkness that he’s pulled me into, and all I can do is surrender to it, to him.

The pleasure builds again, quicker this time, more intense, and I’m helpless against it. I feel like I’m on the edge of something vast and terrifying, something that I can’t control, and it’s exhilarating.

When I finally come again, it’s with a cry that echoes off the tiled walls, my body trembling as the pleasure tears through me. Dante doesn’t stop, doesn’t relent, until I’m a quivering mess, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my mind blissfully blank.

He stands slowly, and leans in to kiss me, I taste myself on his lips, mingled with the coppery tang of his own blood, and it feels like a promise—a bond that’s been forged in the heat of this sin and sealed with every touch, every sensual breath.

We stay like that for a moment, lost in each other, in the connection that has only grown stronger, deeper. And as I look into Dante’s eyes, I know that I’ve finally succumbed to the darkness, that I’ve embraced it fully, and that there’s no turning back.

This is who I am now. This is who we are.

And as terrifying as that is, maybe I like this change.

The next few days pass in a strange haze, the kind that comes after a storm has ravaged everything and left only fragments behind. The villa, once drenched in blood and darkness, slowly returns to the sunny haven it was meant to be. The windows are thrown open, allowing the warm breeze to drift in, carrying with it the scent of the sea and blooming flowers. The air is lighter now, the weight of what happened seeming to dissipate with each passing hour.

But I can’t forget. The image of Luca’s lifeless body, the way his blood soaked into the floor, still lingers in the back of my mind, a reminder of the line I’ve crossed. Yet, as much as it should haunt me, it doesn’t.

Not in the way it probably should. Instead, it feels like something I’ve absorbed into myself, a part of who I am now, a part of who Dante and I have become together.

Dante is different now, too. He moves through the villa with a sense of ease that wasn’t there before, as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders. The darkness that once clung to him like a second skin has receded, leaving room for something else…

Something I hadn’t expected.

I watch him from the terrace as he speaks to one of his men, his voice low and commanding. He’s always in control, always the one giving orders, but there’s a softness to him now, a calm that I didn’t think was possible in someone like him. It’s in the way he carries himself, the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

In those moments, I see a side of Dante that I hadn’t seen before—a side that’s more than just the ruthless man who took what he wanted without hesitation. There’s a warmth there, a quiet intensity that’s almost tender, and it catches me off guard every time I see it.

One afternoon, I find him in the kitchen, something that surprises me more than it should. He’s at the stove, the scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the air, and for a moment, I just stand there, watching him. He looks out of place in this domestic setting, yet somehow, he fits perfectly.

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help?” he asks, without turning around, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

I blink, shaking off my surprise, and walk over to him, unsure of what to do. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Solnyshko,” he replies, his tone light, but there’s an underlying seriousness that makes me pause.

I take the knife he hands me, the cool metal solid in my grasp, and start chopping the vegetables he sets in front of me. It feels strange, this normalcy, like we’ve slipped into some alternate reality where the past week didn’t happen, where blood and death don’t linger in the corners of the villa.

But it’s nice. It’s different. And I find myself smiling, the tension in my chest loosening with each slice of the knife.

Dante glances at me, his eyes softening in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. “You look good like this,” he says, his voice low, intimate. “At peace.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve never felt at peace, not really, but there’s something about this moment, this quietness between us, that feels close to it. “You do too,” I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t respond, but the look he gives me is enough. It’s filled with something deep, something that makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to dive into the unknown. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid.

The days continue like this, each one bringing something new, something unexpected. Dante takes me out on the water, the two of us alone on a sleek boat that cuts through the waves with ease. The sun is hot on my skin, the wind tangling in my hair, and for a few hours, it’s easy to forget everything, to pretend that this is all there is—just us and the endless blue of the sea.

He laughs more now, a sound that I’ve come to crave, each one like a rare gift. It’s a laugh that’s warm and real, and every time I hear it, I feel a little piece of me melt away, leaving behind something softer, something more vulnerable. It scares me, how much I want to hear it, how much I want to be the one who brings it out of him.

At night, we lie together in the dark, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore filling the silence. His arm is always wrapped around me, holding me close, as if he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he lets go. But I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.

I trace the lines of his chest with my fingertips, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my touch. It’s a rhythm that grounds me, that reminds me that we’re still here, still alive, despite everything. And in those moments, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be enough. That we could be enough.

But the darkness is never far away. It lingers in the back of my mind, a shadow that I can’t quite shake. It’s in the way Dante’s gaze sometimes drifts off, his thoughts clearly miles away, lost in something that I can’t reach. It’s in the way his hands sometimes tighten around me, as if he’s holding on too tightly, afraid that if he loosens his grip, everything will fall apart.

One morning, I wake up to find him already gone. The bed is cold, his side of the sheets rumpled but empty. A note is left on the pillow beside me, the handwriting neat and precise:

Had to take care of something. I’ll be back soon. Stay out of trouble, Solnyshko.

I smile at the words, but there’s a tightness in my chest that I can’t ignore. It’s been days since I’ve seen the side of Dante that scares me, the side that’s ruthless and unyielding, but I know it’s still there, lurking beneath the surface.

I spend the day wandering through the villa, trying to shake off the unease that clings to me. The sun is bright, the sky a clear, endless blue, but I can’t enjoy it, not without him. I find myself drawn to the studio, the place that’s become a refuge for me, where I can lose myself in the colors and textures that flow from my hands.

The canvas is blank when I enter, waiting, just like I am. I pick up a brush, the familiar weight of it calming me, and start to paint. I don’t think about what I’m doing, don’t plan it out. I just let the colors bleed together, let the image form on its own, guided by something deep inside me.

The hours slip away, the light outside shifting from bright to golden as the day moves on. I lose track of time, of everything but the painting in front of me. It’s not until I hear the sound of the door opening behind me that I realize how late it’s gotten.

Dante steps into the room, his presence filling the space like a force of nature. He’s silent as he approaches, his eyes locked on the canvas. I can’t read his expression, but there’s something in the way he looks at the painting that sends a shiver down my spine.

He stops beside me, his gaze intense as he takes in the swirls of color, the sharp lines and soft edges that make up the image. It’s different from anything I’ve painted before, darker, more chaotic, and I’m not sure what to make of it.

“This is what’s inside you,” he murmurs, his voice low, reverent. “This is who you are.”

I swallow, my throat tight as I nod. “It’s… it’s everything. All of it.”

He turns to me, his eyes softening as he cups my face in his hands. “I’m glad you didn’t hold back.”

I lean into his touch, closing my eyes as I let his warmth wash over me. “I didn’t know I had this in me,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Neither did I,” he says, his thumb brushing gently across my cheek. “But I’m not surprised.”

There’s a weight to his words, something that makes my heart clench in my chest. I open my eyes, meeting his gaze, and in that moment, I see everything—the darkness, the light, the love, the fear. It’s all there, laid bare between us.

The villa may no longer be Luca’s crypt, but the shadows of what we’ve done still linger, waiting in the corners, in the quiet moments between us. But for now, in this moment, there’s only us. There’s only the warmth of his touch, the steady beat of his heart, the quiet understanding that we are bound together by something stronger than fear, stronger than death.

And as I stand there, wrapped in his arms, I realize that this is enough. We are enough.

For now, that’s all that matters.