Cordelia closed the door and stood with her back pressed against it. Heart hammering as if it had been running before her body knew to move. Her palms pressed flat against wood that still held the night's bitter cold.
She told herself to breathe. To think of anything except forest-green eyes and a voice that made the world feel less sharp.
To forget the way he'd caught her. The solid warmth of his body against hers. The scent of leather and winter that had wrapped around her senses.
A soft knock shattered her fragile composure.
"Lady Cordelia." Dante's voice filtered through the door, quiet and steady. "May I enter?"
Every rational thought screamed at her to send him away. "You can't be here."
But her traitorous hand had already found the latch and lifted it.
He stepped inside and shut the door with careful precision, turning to face her as if one sudden move might shatter whatever delicate thing existed between them.
"I can't take it anymore," he said, voice rough with restraint.
"What does that mean?" Her pulse thundered in her ears.
He crossed the small gap between them in two strides, and suddenly the scent of winter and wild things surrounded her completely.
Cordelia didn't expect him to bend and find her mouth with his own—hot lips pressing against hers with desperate hunger.
Heat rose through her like wildfire. She'd imagined she would be prudent, that some part of her would remember duty and propriety.
Instead, her fingers slid into his dark hair and her body leaned into him, traitor to every oath she'd ever made.
He pressed her gently back against the door and kissed her like a man dying of thirst who'd finally found water. Her name broke on his breath like a secret held too long, and she answered with a sound she'd never made before—raw and wanting.
"Dante..." she managed, breathless and burning.
His hands settled at her waist with reverent care. His mouth left hers to travel the column of her throat. Finding her pulse point, her collarbone, where her heartbeat argued violently with her good sense.
The thin silk of her nightgown whispered under his touch as his hands explored, and a low moan escaped her that surprised them both with its intensity.
"Say one word, and I stop," he murmured against her skin, and the tenderness in his voice undid her more completely than hunger alone could have.
She couldn't make herself say it. Didn't want to say it.
Dante kissed her shoulder through the parted edge of her robe, then lifted his head to look into her eyes. His gaze dark with want but still careful, still asking permission.
"May I?" His voice was raw, stripped of every defense.
"Yes." The word left her in a desperate rush. "Please…"
He touched her breasts slowly, gently enough to make her eyes sting. When his hands skimmed lower, gathering her skirt, everything in her rose with anticipation.
'Stay away from the wolves. Especially from him.'
Her father's voice cut through the haze like a blade, sudden and bright and impossibly clear. As if he stood at the threshold, watching his daughter become everything he'd feared.
Cordelia woke as one wakes from falling. Sudden, breathless, grasping at air that tasted of copper and forbidden dreams.
She sat bolt upright, hair clinging to her damp neck, nightgown soaked with sweat. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and the phantom shape of him still seemed to hold the air around her bed.
The taste of wanting lingered on her tongue as if the dream had been real.
It wasn't real. It wasn't real.
But her body didn't seem to know the difference. Heat still pulsed through her veins, her skin felt oversensitive, and between her legs—
She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks and fought the urge to scream.
What was wrong with her?
Good daughters didn't have dreams like that. Proper ladies didn't wake up aching and desperate for men who were supposed to be their enemies.
She stood because standing was something she could control. Washed her face with water so cold it shocked, braided her hair with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
Tried to focus on anything else through the day—accounts that needed reviewing, a loose seam that needed mending. The thread snagged. The numbers blurred into meaningless shapes.
Everything fell completely apart when she saw him at dinner.
The great hall buzzed with its usual evening chaos, but the noise seemed to quiet around his chair. He sat three places down from her father, speaking with a merchant about trade routes, his voice carrying that low rumble that made her stomach flip.
She couldn't stop staring. Couldn't stop remembering the dream. The heat of his mouth, the gentleness of his hands, the way he'd said her name like a prayer.
And now he was right there. Real and solid, and close enough to touch.
Heat flooded her cheeks and she reached for her wine cup with trembling fingers.
"Cordelia?" Her father's voice cut through her daze. "Are you listening?"
She turned startled eyes to Lord Leon's worried face. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I asked if you were feeling well. You seem distracted."
"I'm fine," she said too quickly. "Just tired."
"The servants said you woke late this morning. And you've barely touched your food." His weathered features creased with concern. "Are you sure everything is all right?"
"I was reading late into the night. That's all."
Leon's gaze pressed for a moment longer, searching for truth beneath her careful mask, then finally withdrew.
"Don't strain your eyes with so much reading, sweetheart. Rest is important too."
"Yes, Father."
From across the table, she'd caught Dante's reaction. A slow smile curved his lips—satisfied and knowing—before he turned back to his conversation.
Watching him from the corner of her eye as dinner dragged on, she wondered if he knew. If he could sense the chaos he'd created in her mind. Even in sleep.
When she finally escaped to her chambers that evening, exhausted from maintaining composure, a slip of cream parchment waited inside her door.
Her heart stuttered. She knew the handwriting before she even picked it up.
Inside, one line in that strong, familiar hand: 'Will you walk?'
She sat on her bed and watched the clock work its way toward midnight, the note clutched in her trembling hands. When the bells finally chimed, she rose like a woman called by forces beyond her control.
She went.
Dante stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him, watching the moon's reflection. He heard her steps but didn't turn.
"Must I apologize to a book for stealing you away?" His voice carried a hint of amusement. "Oh, wait… I suppose I am the book."
She couldn't answer. Her breath had gone rough and uneven, and the dream's heat still lingered like fever in her blood.
He turned then, and whatever teasing comment he'd been preparing died on his lips. His face went pale as he took in her appearance. Red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks, the way she was breathing like she'd been running.
"What's wrong?" He closed the distance between them in seconds, close enough to catch her if she fell. "Cordelia, what happened?"
"I don't know," she said, and the truth broke her composure. "Last night I dreamed. I can still feel… it feels so real that when I wake up I can still taste you. I told myself I wouldn't come tonight. That we can't see each other again. That this is madness. But I can't breathe at the thought of not seeing you…”
Her voice cracked, mortified by the longing in it, but she gathered all of her courage before looking in his eyes. “What's wrong with me?"
Something fierce and possessive flashed across his features before he controlled it. His hands trembled slightly as he raised them, hovering near her face but not quite touching.
"There's nothing wrong with you," he said, voice rough with barely restrained emotion. "You're not going mad, Cordelia. I promise you that."
"Then why—"
"Because I dream of you too."