The next night, the atmosphere in the manor reached a fever pitch. Isabella had spent the day "inspecting" the kitchen, driving Mrs. Halloway to tears, and had spent the evening draped over Dante in the lounge, whispering about their "future" in the city.
Anna had finished the ledger at 4:00 AM, her eyes so blurred she could barely see the keys. She had slept for three hours before Dante summoned her to the library again.
Isabella was there, of course. She was wearing a dress of sheer black lace, her neck adorned with a diamond necklace that looked like a collar.
"Dante, darling, I've decided," Isabella said, her voice high and annoying. "When we move back to the city, we'll take the girl. She can be my personal maid. It will be good for her to learn how to serve a real lady."
Dante was standing by the window, a glass of scotch in his hand. He didn't answer.
Anna snapped.
She stood up from her typewriter, the chair screeching against the floor. "I would rather go back to the slums and starve than spend a single minute as your maid, Isabella. You're a parasite. You don't build anything, you don't create anything. You just exist on the blood of better men."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Isabella's face went pale, then a mottled, ugly red. "Dante! Are you going to let her speak to me like that?"
Dante turned. He didn't look angry; he looked *electrified*. He set his glass down on the mantle. "Isabella. Go to the dining room. I believe Mrs. Halloway has prepared your favorite."
"But—"
"Now."
Isabella saw the look in his eyes—a dark, chaotic hunger—and for once, she didn't argue. She scurried out of the room, her lace dress rustling.
Anna stood her ground, her chest heaving, her hazel eyes bright with defiance. Dante walked toward her, and for the first time, he didn't stop a respectful distance away. He invaded her space, his body pressing her back against her desk.
"You have a very big mouth for such a small thing," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"I'm tired of being silent, Dante! I'm tired of her, and I'm tired of you pretending you don't care when she treats me like trash!"
"And why do you care, Anna?" he goaded, his hands coming up to rest on the desk on either side of her, trapping her. "Is it your pride? Or is it because you can't stand the thought of her in my bed?"
"You're disgusting," she hissed, trying to push him away.
"Am I?" He leaned in, his nose brushing against hers. "Because for the last week, every time I look at you, you're looking at me. You're watching me with her. You're jealous, Anna. You're burning up with it."
"I hate you!"
"Then show me," he challenged.
Anna didn't think. She didn't plan. She was driven by a week of suppressed rage, physical exhaustion, and a toxic, magnetic pull she couldn't fight anymore. She grabbed his tie, pulling him down, and slammed her mouth onto his.
It wasn't a kiss of love. It was a collision of two broken things.
Dante let out a low, guttural growl, his hands flying to her waist and hoisting her up onto the desk. He kissed her back with a violence that made her head spin, his tongue claiming her mouth with a possessive, desperate hunger. It tasted of scotch, tobacco, and the dark, metallic tang of the storm.
For a moment, the world of ledgers, syndicates, and Isabella disappeared. There was only the heat of his skin, the strength of his arms, and the terrifying realization that they were both drowning in the same dark water.
He pulled back, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes were wide, the obsidian depths filled with a raw, jagged vulnerability she had never seen.
"You shouldn't have done that," he whispered, his voice breaking.
"You started it," she panted, her lips swollen and burning.
Dante looked at her, his expression shifting from hunger to a cold, sudden fear. He pushed off the desk, turning his back to her.
"Go to your room, Anna. Now."
"Dante—"
"GO!" he roared.
Anna fled. She ran to her room, her heart beating so hard it felt like it would burst through her ribs. She touched her lips, the ghost of his taste still there.
She had done it. She had broken the seal. And as she looked at the bag she had packed for her escape with Leo, she realized with a sinking horror that leaving was going to be much, much harder than she thought.