Chapter 1
Zenaida’s POV
There is a unique beauty in living in the shadows. A magnetic pull that draws you out, offering the thrilling agony of stepping back into the light, a pure contradiction between darkness and dawn, right and wrong.
Usually, I keep a low profile. Really low. I’m in constant communication with Marcus and Gino; most of the day we’re either side-by-side or talking through comms. The original plan was for me to leave once Marcia and Dante returned, but Marcia made sure I stayed. I should have said no. I should have told her that staying wasn’t the best option for me. But when Marcia speaks, it’s law, just like it is with Olivia. Theo and Dante just silently nod.
As for Gino and Marcus, they even offered to let me stay in their chambers until mine was finished. I kindly declined. They needed their own space. Their chamber was their sanctuary, their routine, and I didn’t want them losing their reality for me. It was no secret what their relationship status was, but our rule was clear: if they don’t talk about it, neither do we. Not because we were afraid, but because it wasn’t our business. It was theirs, and that was final.
Instead, Olivia told me I could crash in the room beside her office until my own place is ready next month.
...The problem was, I wasn’t alone.
My wavy hair was dark brown, long enough to reach my waist, and right then it was flying wildly around my face as I spun. But the sudden, prickling sensation of eyes on my skin made me freeze mid-turn.
Through the tangle of dark strands, a silhouette emerged from the dim doorway.
They were leaning against the frame, arms crossed, completely unfazed by the deafening bass vibrating through the floorboards. In this world, letting your guard down could get you killed; catching myself acting like a normal, carefree girl in front of them felt worse than a death sentence.
I didn’t reach for a towel or try to cover the deep green lace. Instead, my hand instinctively flicked toward the vanity where my daggers lay.
“Nice moves,” a voice cut through the music, laced with a dangerous amusement.
“Dion! How long have you been standing there?” I asked, my voice breathless from a mix of the cardio and the sudden jolt of adrenaline.
“Long enough to admire the view,” he said, his eyes tracking the dark green lace, entirely unapologetic.
“Dion!” I snapped, narrowing my eyes.
“Zen!” he mocked right back, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
He closed the distance between us in two long, predatory steps.
The heat radiating off him instantly fought the air-conditioned chill of the room. He was entirely too close, invading my space before I could even think about reaching for one of my daggers or throwing on a robe.
Creed’s voice was still roaring from the speakers, the bass thumping against my ribs, but suddenly the music felt like background noise compared to the sudden rush of Dion’s presence.
He tilted his head down, his gaze dropping to the long, dark waves of hair clinging to my damp skin, then back up to meet my eyes.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice dropping below the volume of the music, “for someone who claims they want to stay in the shadows, you sure know how to command a room.”
“I never wanted to command a room, Dion,” I said, trying to hold my ground.
“And who do you want to command?” Dion murmured, stepping even closer. He leaned in, his breath brushing hot against the shell of my ear, sending a treacherous shiver straight down my spine.
“No one,” I breathed.
“Liar,” he countered. His lips grazed the sensitive skin of my neck as he spoke, his breath a warm, intoxicating contrast to the cool air of the room.
“I am not a liar!” I snapped back, but the edge in my voice was betrayed by how shallow my breathing had become.
He didn’t argue. He just stayed there, hovering over me, catching my scent as he trailed his nose slightly along my jawline. That was the thing with Dion. He didn’t have to do anything, yet he managed to do everything. Just like that, with a single look or a breath, he completely rattles you.
My heart was hammering against my ribs, loud enough that I was terrified he could hear it over the blaring music. I was trapped between him and the vanity, the cold metal of my daggers just inches away, but my hands refused to move.
Slowly, Dion brought his hands up, not to touch my waist, but to gently hook a strand of my long, damp dark hair behind my ear. His knuckles brushed against my cheekbone, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that burned.
“You shouldn’t leave yourself exposed like this, Zen,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to my lips before snapping back to my stare. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep my restraint.”
The confession hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating despite the roaring bass of the speakers. He was admitting it. The dangerous game we were playing, for months, wasn’t just in my head; it was pulling him under, too.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. His chest was so close it practically brushed against the green lace of my bralette with every breath he took. I could see the dark intensity in his eyes, the absolute seriousness that had completely replaced his usual lazy grin.
“Is that a threat, Dion?” I asked, aiming for cold and detached, but it came out as a breathless whisper.
“A warning,” he corrected softly.
He didn’t move away, but he didn’t close the final inch between us either. He was giving me a choice. I could push him back, remind him of the rules, of Marcia, of the walls I had built around myself in the shadows. Or I could take that final step into the light.
My fingers twitched against the edge of the vanity behind me, brushing the cold, reassuring steel of one of my daggers. A reminder of who I was. A reminder that in our world, vulnerability was a luxury we couldn’t afford.
But looking at him, feeling the heat of his skin, my grip on the dagger faltered.
“Dion, be a good boy,” I murmured, a desperate attempt to inject some of my usual armor back into my voice, to pretend his closeness wasn’t turning my blood to liquid fire.
He let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated right against my skin. “Zen, don’t push me, baby.”
The way he said it—that rough, quiet promise wrapped in a nickname he had no right using—made my breath catch entirely. It wasn’t a game anymore. The teasing facade was completely gone, replaced by a raw, heavy gravity that felt impossible to fight.
He slid his hand down from my hair, his palm resting against the bare skin of my shoulder. His touch was scorching, a direct contrast to the cold wood of the vanity pressing into my lower back. He didn’t force me. He just leaned in a fraction of an inch closer, his dark eyes demanding an answer I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to give.
The bass from the speakers was still vibrating through the floorboards, a relentless thumping that matched the frantic rhythm of my heart.
I looked up at him through the dark tangle of my hair, my lips parting slightly. I could push him away right now. I could snap a sarcastic remark, reach for the dagger, or demand he get out of my space.
Instead, my hand moved on its own, my fingers lightly coming to rest against the heavy fabric of his shirt, right over the steady, heavy beat of his own heart.
“And if I do?” I whispered, challenging him, the words slipping out before my brain could stop them.
Dion’s eyes darkened, the last shred of his restraint visibly fraying.
“Then I’ll just have to remind you how our night ended a few months ago,” he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly register that sent a shockwave straight to my core. “Screaming my name on the hood of my car.”
