Twisted Loyalty

Chapter 20: Temptation

Dante

The hot water pours over me, but it does little to wash away the tension still coursing through my body. I stand there, braced against the cold tile wall, my head bowed as the steam fills the bathroom, swirling like the chaos in my mind. I scrub a hand over my face, the roughness of my knuckles reminding me of the night—of the blood, the violence, the pure rage that had driven me.

Enzo's gone. The bastard is nothing but a memory now, a pile of bones and blood I left behind. But there's no satisfaction in it. Not the way I expected. The gnawing emptiness inside me is still there, lurking like a dark shadow. I killed him, but it didn't feel like enough. Not after what he said, not after what he threatened to do to her.

Sienna.

The name pulses through my mind, and immediately, the kiss we shared flashes in my memory. The way she tasted. The way she hesitated for just a second before she gave in, kissed me back with a hunger I hadn't expected. Her lips had been soft, her body pliant against mine, and for those brief moments, it felt like I was drowning in her.

I grit my teeth, trying to shake the thought, but it clings to me, filling the space that violence couldn't. Even as I stand here, blood and grime washing down the drain, I can still feel the heat of her body pressed against mine, the softness of her lips as they moved against me.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I close my eyes, the memory of her concerned face, the way she rushed downstairs after hearing me come home, burning into my mind. She saw the blood. She saw the wreck I was, and still... she didn't back away. She didn't run from me.

She should have.

The water hits the tile with a steady rhythm, but it does nothing to clear my head. She trusted me. Despite everything she knows about me, everything I've done, she trusts me. The thought twists something deep inside me, something I've spent years burying. I shouldn't need her to trust me. I shouldn't need her, period. I'm dangerous, a monster in every way.

But then, when I kissed her—when she kissed me back—everything else had faded. For that brief moment, it wasn't about revenge or violence or the blood still staining my hands. It was just her. And I wanted more.

I press my palm harder against the wall, trying to ground myself, but my mind keeps drifting back to her. To the way she had looked at me, eyes wide, full of something like trust, maybe even relief. I could feel her body tremble slightly when I held her, but she didn't pull away. She melted into me, and it set something off inside me. Something dark and primal.

I shake my head, trying to focus, but the thought of her—of her trust, of her softness—sends a surge of heat through me that I can't ignore. Damn it. I should be thinking about what's next, about keeping her safe, about protecting her from the world that's closing in. But all I can think about is how it felt to kiss her, how it felt to hold her.

And worse, the thought of her trusting me—someone who has spent his life bathing in blood, someone who shouldn't be trusted—stirs something deeper. Something dangerous. Because if she trusts me now, if she gives herself to me in more ways than one, I won't be able to let her go.

Fuck.

I push off the wall and shut off the water, stepping out of the shower, dripping and tense. A pair of sweats and a T-shirt sit neatly folded on the counter. I stare at them for a second, realizing that she must've come in here while I was in the shower.

The thought turns me on more than I'd like to admit. How long had she been watching? Did she hesitate? Did she look away, or did she stay, eyes glued to me, her cheeks flushed with the same heat I'm feeling now?

I grab the towel and dry off quickly, forcing the thoughts back down. But no matter how much I try to push it aside, the memory of her kiss—her soft lips, the way she gave herself to me—burns through my veins like fire. I toss the towel aside, trying to focus on anything else, but it's no use. She's under my skin now.

I pull on the clean clothes she left for me, the fabric clinging to my damp skin as I head downstairs. The scent of her lingers faintly on the clothes, and the thought of her, just upstairs, waiting, sends a rush of heat through me again. It's maddening, how easily she's gotten into my head, how much I want her.

I shake my head, forcing myself to stay focused, but the thought of her standing there, watching me, the way she looked at me with trust, with desire... it lingers, pulsing in the back of my mind.

And fuck, it's getting harder and harder to keep myself in check.

---

Sienna

Dante's room is massive, dark and masculine—just like him. I open the doors to his walk-in closet, and for a moment, I can't help but laugh under my breath. His wardrobe is meticulously organized. Rows of tailored suits hang on one side, organized by color—dark grays, blacks, and the occasional navy. Beside them, crisp white shirts hang perfectly pressed, alongside neatly folded pants and shoes lined up in military precision.

And then there's the wall of cologne. I blink, slightly taken aback. Bottles of every size and shape, each one probably more expensive than my entire wardrobe, are lined up perfectly. I can't help the small giggle that escapes me at the thought of Dante, Mr. Stoic and Dangerous, being obsessed with cologne.

I shake my head, turning back to the task at hand. I reach for a pair of gray sweats and a black T-shirt, knowing they'll be comfortable enough for him after everything he's been through tonight. But my hands tremble slightly as I hold the clothes. I shouldn't be this nervous. It's just Dante. Just a man. A very dangerous, very intense, very... well-built man.

I make my way back toward the bathroom, my heart pounding a little harder than it should. When I reach the door, I pause. The sound of the shower running fills the room, and for a second, I hesitate. Should I knock? Should I wait for him to finish?

I knock lightly on the door, barely a tap, but when there's no answer, I chew on my bottom lip. What now? I glance at the clothes in my hand. I can just leave them on the counter and walk out. He probably won't even notice I was in here.

My fingers curl around the door handle, and before I can talk myself out of it, I open the door.

The warmth of the steam hits me first, enveloping the room in a hazy mist. I step inside quietly, my heart thudding in my chest as I walk toward the counter. And then I see him.

Dante stands in the shower, his back to me, the water streaming down his body. His muscles ripple under the heat, the lines of his tattoos dark against his skin. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. I shouldn't be watching him. I should turn around. Leave. Now.

But I don't move.

I stand there, staring, as the water runs down his spine, covering the lower half of his body but leaving enough for me to see the powerful lines of his back, the curve of his shoulders. He's... beautiful. There's no other word for it. Dangerous, yes. But beautiful in a way that makes it hard to look away.

My cheeks burn, and I know I need to stop, but my body isn't listening. I keep watching, my breath shallow, my pulse quickening. Something about seeing him like this—so raw, so vulnerable—makes the air between us feel thick with something I can't quite name.

And then, as if breaking a spell, I force myself to move. I place the clothes on the counter as quietly as I can, my hands trembling slightly, and I back out of the room before I lose control of myself completely.

Once the door clicks shut behind me, I let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My heart is still racing, my face flushed with heat. I shouldn't have gone in there. I shouldn't have... watched. But I can't stop thinking about the way he looked, the way his body moved under the water.

I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts, and make my way downstairs to the living room, hoping the space and distance will help me calm down. But even as I settle onto the couch, my mind keeps drifting back to Dante, to the way my pulse quickened when I saw him. And no matter how much I try to push it away, I can't shake the feeling that something between us is shifting.

And I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a dangerous thing.