Page 7 of Bad Girl Dilemma

He crouches in front of me, eye level now. “Why do you do it, Specter?” His tone is curious, but his gaze never softens. “Or should that be Little Dahlia?”

I blink. Hard. My real name from his lips is like a slap. Sharp. Puncturing. It makes me almost forget thelittlepart. That’s the third… fourth time he’s called me little. I’m keeping score on the size-baiting. And absolutely not thinking about him breaking me in half. Or about what else a man his size is packing. Nope nopenope.

“I see the way you rile up your followers. But I also sense your glee. So tell me, how much of this is a crusade?” he murmurs. “And how much is just rage you don’t know where to put?”

I look away.

“No?” His voice lowers. “Is it because of Mommy?”

My heart stutters.

He doesn’t know. He can’t know. I made sure to scrub her from every last corner of the internet. “Fuck you.”

That gets a smile. The devil, cracking open his box of toys. “Ah, she speaks. Hit a nerve, did I?”

I go cold. Silent. Exhale.

He circles again, slower this time. Deliberate.

“You wear your defiance like armor,” he murmurs. “It’s cute. But I wonder. What happens when I take that off? What do I find underneath?”

“You’re not touching me,” I spit.

He chuckles. Very much in a ‘like you have a choice’ way. “Not yet.”

Not fucking ever. I brace. Cycle through every martial art technique I’ve learned, which is sadly a necessity for a woman like me.

He comes behind me, leans down—his breath a whisper against my ear.  “You know what fascinates me?” he says softly. “You didn’t ask where you are. Or why I’ve taken you. You didn’t ask who I am or what I want.”

His hand grazes the back of my chair. Not touching me. But close enough that I feel his heat. I hate what it’s doing to my body. Because he’s sharply observant, and it’s only a matter of time before he sees my diamond-hard nipples. The pulse racing at my throat that’s a fraction of panic and more… other things.

“You’ve already guessed. Because you’resmart. Because you’ve seen me. And you know I’m not here to kill you. At least not yet.”

I say nothing. Because he’s right. Dante lives up to his name of bringing hell to those who wrong him. Slow. Excruciating. Hell. If the rumors bear out, this is just starting.

“You’re scared,” he whispers. “Not of me. Not really. You’re scared I’ll find what matters. Use it against you.”

My stomach turns to ice.

He knows too much.

Hedoesn’t, but hedoes.

“You left a trail,” he murmurs. “Just a thread. A forgotten data tag on an old charity. A recurring transfer that breadcrumbs to a little house in Maine.”

My heart kicks hard. He smiles like he hears it.

“A man living there. Older. Reclusive. Withdrawn. I wonder—would he survive a heart attack if the wrong people paid Dad a visit?”

I snap. “Don’t you fucking touch him?—”

Dante is in front of me in a flash, gripping the arms of the chair, caging me in with his body, his breath, his presence. So close I can feel heat roll off him in waves. Can smell the mint on his breath and the cold thunderstorm of his aftershave.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “There it is. Your fire. Your weakness. Thank you, little thief. It’s quite refreshing to see you’re not masquerading as a boring wimp of a keyboard warrior. That should make this much more interesting.”

He’s not triumphant. He’s not gloating. He’s curious. Like he just cracked open a lockbox and is cataloguing the contents.

I shove back fear. Clench my fists. Shake my head like it might undo the moment. Erase what he’s just threatened.

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