The humidity on the island was a physical weight, but inside the library, the air was perpetually chilled by the hum of the cooling system. It was a sterile, expensive cold that seemed to preserve the secrets bound in the leather books.
Anna sat at her desk, her back straight, her fingers moving with a mechanical precision that hadn't been there a month ago. She didn't look at the clock anymore. Time on the island wasn't measured in hours, but in the number of pages she filled with the dark history of the Vane Syndicate.
Clack. Clack. Ding.
"You're hesitant on the letter 'S', Anna," a voice rasped from the shadows.
Dante was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to her. He was framed by a thunderstorm brewing over the Atlantic, the grey light catching the sharp edges of his profile. He didn't need to look at her to know she was struggling. He listened to the rhythm of her typing the way a conductor listens to an orchestra.
"My finger is cramped," Anna said, not stopping. She knew better now. If she stopped, he would find a way to make the silence hurt.
Dante turned. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, sleeves rolled to reveal the thick, corded muscles of his forearms. He walked toward her, each footfall silent on the Persian rug. He didn't stop until he was standing directly behind her.
He didn't touch her. He simply leaned over, his chest inches from her back, his arms reaching around her to rest his hands on the mahogany desk. He effectively caged her. The scent of him—expensive tobacco, aged bourbon, and something metallic like rain on hot asphalt—swirled around her, making her dizzy.
"Show me," he whispered. His voice was a low, husky vibration that she felt in her spine more than she heard in her ears.
"Show you what?" she asked, her voice breathy.
"The cramp."
He reached out and took her right hand. His palm was calloused and massive, swallowing her hand completely. He didn't squeeze; he began to massage the base of her thumb with a slow, deliberate pressure. It should have been a gesture of care, but with Dante, it felt like an interrogation. He was looking for her breaking point.
"You're tense," he noted, his thumb tracing the blue veins in her wrist. "Is it the work, or is it the proximity?"
"It's the person," Anna snapped, trying to pull her hand away.
He didn't let go. Instead, he leaned down, his lips ghosting against the shell of her ear. She could feel the heat of his breath, a stark contrast to the cold room. "The person is the only reason you aren't at the bottom of the ocean, little rat. Remember that next time you think about snarling at me."
He released her hand abruptly, the loss of his heat leaving her skin feeling strangely cold. He walked to his desk and poured a drink, the amber liquid catching the light. "I've noticed you've been taking longer walks in the garden. Tell me, do the flowers talk back, or is it the guard at the East Gate?"
Anna's heart skipped a beat. She kept her eyes on the typewriter. "He's just a guard. He tells me the weather."
Dante let out a low, dark chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. "Leo is a sentimental fool. He thinks a girl like you can be saved. He doesn't realize that once you've been marked by a Vane, there is no 'saving.' There is only survival."
"I'm not marked by you," Anna whispered.
Dante appeared at her side in a blur of movement. He reached out, his thumb catching her lower lip and tugging it down, exposing her teeth. His eyes were dark, dilated, and predatory.
"Every word you type, every bruise I give you in the Grave, every meal I provide... it's all my mark, Anna. You're breathing my air. You're living my life. By the time I'm done with you, you won't even remember what the slums smelled like."
He let go of her lip, his gaze lingering on her mouth for a second too long before he turned away. "Get back to work. I want the Port of Lagos ledger finished by midnight."