The training had lasted until the small hours of the morning. Anna was covered in sweat, dirt, and bruises. Her hair was a wild mess, and her breath was coming in short, jagged gasps.
Dante hadn't let up. He was pushing her, testing her limits, watching for the moment her "slum-bred" toughness finally snapped.
"Again," he said, his voice raspy.
Anna didn't lunge this time. She waited. She watched the way his weight shifted. When he stepped forward to goad her, she didn't swing for his chest. She dropped low, sweeping his leg, and as he off-balanced, she drove her shoulder into his gut.
They both went down.
Anna scrambled on top of him, the knife held to his throat. Her chest was heaving, her hazel eyes blown wide with adrenaline and a sudden, terrifying rush of power.
"I'm not a victim," she hissed, the blade pressing into the skin of his neck. A single bead of dark blood appeared where the steel met his skin.
Dante didn't move. He lay there on the mat, his hands flat on the floor. He looked up at her, and for the first time, the "dark silence" was broken by a look of raw, predatory hunger. He wasn't angry that she had him at knifepoint. He was *impressed*.
"There she is," he whispered, his voice like smoke. "The girl who survived the Pit Stop."
He reached up, not to take the knife, but to wrap his hand around the back of her head, pulling her face down toward his.
"Do it, Anna," he dared her, his eyes searching hers. "Cut me. End the monster. Or realize that you're becoming exactly like me."
Anna's hand trembled. The tip of the knife wavered against his pulse. She looked at his mouth, then back to his eyes. The hatred was there, but beneath it was something else—a dark, magnetic attraction born from the violence they had shared in this room.
She didn't cut him. But she didn't pull away.
"I'll never be like you," she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.
Dante's grip on her head tightened, his thumb stroking her temple. "You already are. You're just afraid to admit how much you like the taste of the dark."
He sat up, forcing her to straddle his lap to maintain her balance. The knife was still between them, a silver barrier that was starting to feel like an invitation.
"Go to your room," Dante said, his voice suddenly cold, though his eyes remained fixated on her lips. "Marco is gone. I sent him to the mainland... in pieces. You're safe. For tonight."
Anna stood up, her legs shaking. She backed away, the combat knife still gripped in her hand. She turned and fled the training hall, but as she reached the elevator, she looked back.
Dante was still sitting on the mat, his finger touching the drop of blood on his neck. He caught her gaze and, for the first time, he gave her a slow, dark smile that promised her one thing:
The training was just beginning.