Page 24 of Ruthless Silence
"I'd prefer you act like the monster you are."
His almost-smile appears, the one that makes me want to throw things. "I am acting like myself."
"Coward," I sign, stepping closer to his desk. "You sit in that chair every night, watching me like some kind of pervert. What kind of man does that?"
Something flickers in his eyes, the same look he probably gets before ordering someone's death, but he doesn't rise to the bait. Just continues studying me with that maddening patience, like I'm a puzzle he has all the time in the world to solve.
"A husband watching his wife sleep," he signs back, each movement precise and controlled. "Nothing perverse about it."
The casual claim makes my blood boil. "I'm not your wife. Not really."
He glances deliberately at my left hand where his ring sits heavy. "The law says otherwise. The Hadley contracts say otherwise. Chicago says otherwise."
"The law can go to hell." My signs are so aggressive my hands ache. "And so can you."
"Eventually," he agrees, that almost-smile still playing at his lips. "But not today."
I want to scream. Want to grab his perfectly pressed shirt and shake him until that control cracks. Make him angry. Make him cruel. Make him something I can properly hate instead of this patient guardian who plays midnight symphonies.
"You sit in that chair like a pervert," I sign viciously. "Every night. Watching me."
"My room," he signs back calmly. "My chair. My right."
My hand goes to the ring, yanking it off with enough force to hurt. The metal flies across the desk, aimed at his chest. He catches it one-handed without even blinking, the same reflexes that probably help him survive assassination attempts.
"There," I sign with shaking hands. "Now I'm not your wife."
He examines the ring, turning it in the light from the window. Then he slips it into his pocket with the same calm that makes me want to destroy everything in this room.
"You'll put it back on," he signs.
"Make me."
The words hang between us, a challenge I shouldn't have issued. The temperature in the room drops, and I realize I've finally, finally crossed a line. His cigarette goes out in the tray with a soft hiss. He stands slowly, unfolding from the chair with that liquid grace that reminds me he's not just patient. He's dangerous.
Even across the desk, his presence fills the space between us. Six-foot-three of silent threat, and I asked him to make me.
Cazzo, what have I done?
Dante moves around the desk with predator grace, and I refuse to back away even as my heart pounds. He stops just short of touching me, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body. My back hits the edge of the desk, and suddenly I'm trapped between mahogany and muscle.
His hands come up to bracket me against the desk, palms flat on the surface, caging me without contact. Hands that have killed, hands that sign death orders as easily as love songs. I can smell his cologne this close, cigarette smoke clinging to his shirt, and something underneath that's purely him. My nipples tightenagainst my dress, so hard they hurt, and I know he can see them through the thin fabric.
He leans down, and I feel his breath ghost across my neck. Still not touching, but every nerve in my body screams awareness. His hands move in the space between us, signing so close I feel the air displacement: "You want a monster?"
My hand twitches toward the knife in my boot. He has to know it's there, but his eyes dare me to try.
"Yes," I sign back, though my hands shake. This is what I wanted. To make him react. To make him cruel.
"Then why," his signs continue, deliberate and measured, "do you stand outside my door every night, listening to my music?"
The question cuts deeper than any physical blow. "I don't…"
"You do." His eyes hold mine, dark and knowing. "You think I don't notice? Your breathing changes when I play certain pieces. You lean against the door during the sad parts."
My face burns with humiliation and something else. Heat pools between my thighs, and I hate myself for the wetness gathering there. "Your music… I already know why you play. You told me it's your voice, how you scream without sound. But why play things that make me…"
"Make you what?" His signs are closer now, intimate.
