Chapter 1 - The Heavy Footsteps Outside the Ward
The metallic click of the hospital room door turning latch by latch sounded louder than a gunshot in the silent night. My fingers clenched the coarse cotton of my hospital gown, my knuckles white against the dark bruises blooming across my forearms. Beside the bed, Dante stood frozen, his dark shirt and tailored suit jacket catching the faint, amber wash of city lights spilling through the high window. On his fingers, the intricate black tattoos seemed to pulse under his skin as he shifted his weight, his protective stance forming a solid wall between my battered body and the threshold.
"He's yours, Dante," I whispered, the words tearing past my dry throat with a desperate, breathless rattle that matched the rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor behind my head.
Dante didn't flinch. His dark eyes locked onto mine, searching my face for any trace of deceit beneath the scratches and swelling. "The baby is mine?" he asked, his voice low, steady, and laden with a fierce, coiled intensity that brooked no argument.
"I was trying to stop a war," I gasped, clutching his arm as another spasm of pain twisted through my lower abdomen. "Arthur Sullivan is downstairs."
The air in the room dropped ten degrees. Dante's jaw tightened until the muscle ticked sharply beneath his stubble. The footsteps in the hallway outside grew heavier, boots scuffing against the linoleum floor with deliberate, unhurried arrogance. They were moving past the nurses' station, ignoring the quiet chime of call buttons, heading straight for room four-twostep by step.
"Don't let him near me," I pleaded, my voice dropping to a terrified whisper as I dragged myself further up the sterile white sheets, my nails digging into his sleeve. "Please, Dante. He knows I took it."
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Dante leaned down, his face inches from mine, the scent of rain and expensive cologne cutting through the antiseptic smell of the ward. His tattooed hand rose, cupping the side of my bruised cheek with surprising tenderness before his expression hardened into stone. "He won't touch you again," he promised.
The doorknob rattled violently. Without a sound, Dante whipped around, his frame blocking the doorway just as the brass handle turned all the way. A tall, immaculate figure in a dark corporate suit appeared in the frame—Arthur Sullivan, his silver hair neatly parted, a cold, predatory smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He took one step inside before his eyes landed on Dante standing squarely in his path. The silence in the room stretched thin, humming with a lethal, suppressed violence that threatened to shatter the glass in the window. Dante didn't wait for Arthur to speak. With a sudden, fluid motion, he hooked his arm around my waist, hauled me upright against his chest, and surged toward the private bathroom exit, leaving Arthur standing alone in the empty ward.
