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“Dante, we didn’t… I couldn’t.”
He scoffs at that, disbelief etched on his face. “I’m done with you.”
He loosens his grip on my arm, reaching behind his jeans to draw a gun from his belt, putting the barrel against my head. His hands are incredibly steady. That’s the first thing I notice throughout this whole fucked up ordeal.
Not the weapon. Not the fact that he could paint the street with my skull before I finish blinking. It’s the undeniable focus, with the only task on his agenda being to kill me.
My pulse kicks once against my throat, heavier than normal as adrenaline runs its course. I should try to de-escalate the situation. Yet, all can think about is how close he is.
The pressure of the gun against my head. His breathing. The way his jaw keeps tightening every few seconds like he’s physically restraining himself from doing something irreversible. Even the way the echo of the streetlamp coats his hair in a golden glow.
I swallow once. If he pulls the trigger, he’ll regret it eventually. So either he’s bluffing, or I’ve finally pushed him far enough that he doesn’t care.
The second possibility should concern me more than it does. Instead, my mind keeps circling one specific detail:
Who’s the jealous one now?
“You ghosted me after I told you to cut that shit out. I was going to fuck Gideon to get back at you, but I couldn’t do it.” Shit, is this what it’s all about? The reason I came to this man’s house was never to get Dante out of my system, but to get his attention?
Fuuuuuck.
“Why?” Dante demands, voice lowering and still laced with venom as he presses the barrel of the gun harder to my head, as if waiting for me to say the wrong thing and give him more reason to blow my brains out.
“Because I don’t want him.”
He tilts his head, face remaining devoid of his ever-present charm. He slides a finger on the trigger before sliding the gun down my face, over my collarbone, chest, and stomach, and pressing the barrel against the erection over my jeans.
“Seems to me you want him a little too much,” he claims in a low growl, “you walked out of that house practically bursting out of your fucking jeans.”
He clearly didn’t hear how Gideon yelled profanities after me before slamming the door shut. Besides, leaving the man’s house with a hard-on obviously means I wasn’t satisfied, but he’s past reasoning at this point.
“It’s because of you, asshole,” I admit, irked by the fact that even faced with death, all I can think about is getting fucked by him. That and the horrible truth of how much I fucking need him. “I wanted to get back at you… or forget you. Either way, I couldn’t go through with it. He disgusted me. The idea of anyone touching me but you makes me sick to my fucking stomach.”
Dante presses the tip of the gun harder against my dick as he snarls, but there’s a flicker in his eyes I don’t dare miss.
“Don’t fucking lie—”
“I’m not lying, Dante,” I exhale. I’ve drilled the lie of being appalled by him from the moment we met. Turns out it's everything else I hate, not him. There’s no point in denying his presence when I’m on the brink of getting a bullet through my head—both of them.
“Did you kiss him?” he asks, tone almost faltering as he searches my eyes.
“Yes,” I admit, about to explain myself further, but he puts the gun back to my head, pressing into the temple. “I already told you. I hated it. I had to think of you to endure it, but that still wasn’t enough. I pushed him off…” My voice trails, cutting the explanation short. I struggle to read him on the best of days. Now it’s worse, and the outcome feels dangerously uncertain. So how much do I actually tell him?
“And?” he presses. “And what happened next?”
I shift my posture. I’m starting to feel the cuts on my wrists where the cable ties slice into my skin and the force with which he holds me at gunpoint. If only I could get my hands free; I hate being tied up.
“He tried to force me to suck him off,” I say reluctantly, studying his face, “he grabbed my hair and pulled me down.”
Dante goes eerily silent as he releases the grip from my arm, the gun slowly retreating to his side. I let the possibility of what happens next run its course, and I can see it in his eyes. I let him consider that before putting him out of his misery. “I didn’t do it. I pulled out my knife.”
Dante’s chest starts to rise and fall, breath heavy as it leaves his lungs. His gaze drops to the floor momentarily, beautiful strands of sandy blonde hair falling over his face before he pushes it back with his hand in one sweep. He tilts his head towards Gideon’s house, with a calm that worries me more than the anger he portrayed moments ago.
Ah, fuck. He’s going to kill the guy.
“Don’t,” I demand, trying to wiggle my wrists free. Dante isn’t hearing me; he just keeps staring in the direction of Gideon’s house. “I was the last person there; if you kill him, it’ll look like I did it.”
“Not if the body isn’t found.”
