Dante Valerius

The bass in the club throbbed like a living heartbeat, heavy and sinful. Velvet walls, golden lights, and the scent of smoke and whiskey wrapped around me like temptation itself. The place was his kingdom—everyone here knew it. Everyone respected him. Or feared him.

I should’ve known better than to come here without my brother by my side. His best friend—the man who had ruled the underworld since his twenties—didn’t exactly take kindly to surprises. And me showing up in a black silk dress that hugged every curve? That was gasoline on a fire already smoldering.

I felt his eyes before I saw him. That burning stare from across the room, dark and predatory, cutting through the crowd like a blade. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but I felt him in every inch of my skin.

And then it happened.

Some stranger, cocky and drunk on liquid courage, slid up behind me. His hand—rough, uninvited—clamped on my hip. His fingers dared to trail lower, possessive, as though I were some prize to be plucked.

The air shifted.

I looked up—and there he was.

Standing at the balcony above, sharp suit molded to his broad frame, dark tie loose against his throat. His jaw flexed, his fist curled at his side, and his eyes...oh God, those eyes. Murderous. Wild. The kind of look that promised blood.

Before I could peel the man’s hand off, before I could breathe, he was there. A storm cutting through the crowd. His guards didn’t stop him—they knew better. He didn’t speak as he reached us, didn’t blink.

One second, the man’s hand was on me.

The next, it was twisted behind his back with a sickening crack, slammed against the bar so hard glasses shattered to the floor.

The entire club froze. Music still pounded, but all I heard was his low growl, deadly and raw, against the other man’s ear:

“Touch what’s mine again, and I’ll make sure you never use those hands for anything again.”

The stranger whimpered, and just like that, he was tossed aside like trash. Guards dragged him out, leaving only silence and the weight of him.

His eyes locked on me. A hunger years in the making. The kind that was more than lust—it was obsession, possession, a vow carved into bone.

He stepped closer, chest brushing mine, heat radiating off him in waves. His hand cupped my jaw, firm, tilting my head back so I couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“Little one,” he murmured, voice dripping sin, “you’ve been playing with fire, walking into my club dressed like this. Do you have any idea what it does to me—seeing you, knowing every man here wants what already belongs to me?”

My lips parted, words stolen, breath trembling.

And his smirk—dark, dangerous—was the last warning before he leaned in, his teeth grazing my ear:

“You’re not leaving my sight tonight. Not until I remind you—and everyone else—exactly who you belong to.”