Chapter 3

I sit alone in the dark penthouse all night, phone off.

At dawn, the lock turns.

Dante walks in. His suit reeks of someone else's perfume. The bite marks on his throat are obscene.

He sees me frozen on the couch and pauses — then drags a hand through his hair, irritated.

"Wren. Don't tell me you sat here all night waiting for me."

My voice comes out raw. "Do you want to shower?"

He stiffens. He takes in my white face, my bloodshot eyes, and his brow creases. He tosses his jacket on the chair.

But there's a flicker of something pleased behind his eyes. He walks over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, gentle.

"I know. You're upset because you lost."

"The rule is the rule, baby. Hundredth round. Anya won. By rights, I should be marrying her."

He pauses, pulls a pink diamond ring from his pocket — easily worth a million — and presses a slow kiss to my throat.

"But you're mine. So I'm giving you one more chance. Another round. Win back your crown. That's a privilege I don't give anyone else."

"So next time, sweetheart — win."

Win.

The word is so absurd I almost laugh. I had a fifty-fifty shot. He took the crown off my head with his own hands and placed it on Anya.

The rules were written in black and white — the hundredth-round winner becomes his bride. Anya won. This pink diamond is nothing but a bone he's tossing me.

Something shifts in his eyes — a glint of challenge. His lips curl.

"What's wrong, Wren-bird? Not happy? You used to fight like a wildcat for me."

He's so certain I'll cry. So certain I'll scream and beg, just like every woman before me.

I just lift my eyes. My voice is flat. Like I'm talking about someone else's life.

"No. I don't care."

"Dante. As of right now, I'm out of the game."

The smile freezes on his mouth. The playful warmth in his eyes stays — but underneath, something murderous flickers.

"You quit? Say that again."

I hold his gaze. Steady.

"Dante. Your game. I'm done playing it."

"I'm leaving you. I won't make a scene. You can have Anya, with my blessing."

His breath catches. His hands snap to my arms — and right then, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He answers. Whatever they tell him turns his face white with rage. "If you so much as touch her, I will end every last one of you!"

He hangs up. His grip locks around my wrist — hard enough to grind bone.

"Ow — Dante, what are you —"

"In the car. Now." His voice is ice. "Look what you've done."

He drags me out. I stumble, nearly fall. He shoves me into the back seat without a word.

He drives like a man possessed. Jaw locked. Eyes dead ahead. He doesn't explain a thing.

The car stops at an abandoned warehouse by the river.

Inside, Anya is on the concrete floor. Hands bound behind her back. Blood at the corner of her mouth.

Dante crosses the room in three strides. He cuts her loose and pulls her against his chest. His eyes are red. Red.

"Anya. Baby. Don't be scared. I won't let anything happen to you."

She sobs into his shirt — then lifts her head and looks at me with wide, frightened eyes.

"Miss Bellamy — if you don't want me near him, I'll leave, I'll disappear — but why would you have someone beat me…"

I take a slow breath. I look only at Dante.

"Dante. I didn't do this. Do you believe me?"

He scoops Anya up, bridal style, shielding her completely. And those narrow, cold eyes turn on me with undisguised disgust.

"She's an orphan! She doesn't make enemies. Who else would touch her — except the woman who's jealous she lost?"

"Lose with grace, Wren. The second you start playing dirty, you're the one who can't handle the game."

I clench my fists so hard my nails break skin. "Dante. I told you. It wasn't me."

"Dante, it's okay," Anya whimpers, voice barely a breath. "I don't blame Wren. She just… she loves you too much."

He laughs — short, cold — and turns for the door with her in his arms. He snaps his fingers at the soldiers behind him.

"The new Queen has been hurt by the old one. The old Queen needs to be punished."