The Everglades

Dante woke up to the smell of mildew and coffee.

He gasped, sitting up. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He wasn't in *Velvet*. He wasn't in a hospital.

He was in a concrete box.

The room was spartan. A cot, a metal table, a single bulb hanging from a wire. The air was thick and humid, heavy with the scent of swamp water and decay.

He looked down. He was still wearing his silk shirt, though it was stained with sweat. His ankle was shackled to the heavy frame of the cot with a length of chain.

"You're awake."

Dante jerked his head toward the corner.

The mercenary—Cain—was sitting in a folding chair, reading a book. He had stripped off the tactical gear, wearing a simple black t-shirt that strained against his shoulders. The scar on his face looked even more severe in the harsh light.

"Where am I?" Dante demanded, trying to summon the imperious tone of the Russo heir. It came out as a croak.

"Safe," Cain said. He stood up and walked to a hot plate in the corner. He poured coffee into a tin mug. "Drink. You're dehydrated."

He placed the mug on the table, just within Dante’s reach.

"Safe?" Dante scoffed, rattling the chain. "I'm chained to a bed in a swamp. Who are you?"

"Cain."

"What kind of name is that?"

"The kind you remember." Cain sat back down, watching him.

"How much?" Dante asked, leaning forward. "Cut the crap. How much is the ransom? My father doesn't negotiate with terrorists, but for me? He'll pay."

Cain didn't answer. He just watched. His gaze was unnerving. Most men looked at Dante with envy or lust. Cain looked at him with... ownership. It made Dante’s skin prickle.

"Why haven't you hurt me?" Dante asked quietly.

"Do you want me to?"

"Kidnappers usually rough up the merchandise. Makes the photos more convincing."

Cain stood up and walked to the cot. Dante flinched, pressing his back against the wall. Cain stopped inches away. He reached out and brushed a stray curl of hair from Dante’s forehead.

"I don't damage what's mine," Cain said softly.

"I'm not yours," Dante spat. "I'm a Russo."

"Russo sold you," Cain said. "Eat your food. We're here for a while."

For three days, the routine was suffocating. Cain didn't torture him. He fed him. He gave him fresh clothes—tactical pants and soft cotton shirts that swallowed Dante’s frame. He watched him sleep.

Dante tried to fight. He threw the coffee mug at the wall. He screamed until his voice gave out. Cain just watched, unbothered, like a man waiting out a storm he knew would pass.

On the fourth night, the humidity broke into a violent thunderstorm. The bunker vibrated with the thunder.

Dante sat on the cot, hugging his knees. The withdrawal from the alcohol and the adrenaline was hitting him hard. He felt small. He felt abandoned.

Cain unlocked the shackle.

Dante froze. "What are you doing?"

"You need a shower," Cain said. "Come."

He led Dante to a small, concrete stall in the back. There was no door. Cain stood in the opening, arms crossed, while Dante stripped.

Usually, Dante flaunted his body. It was his currency. But under Cain’s grey gaze, he felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. He turned on the water, letting the cold spray hit his face to hide the fact that he was crying.

He felt a hand on his back.

Dante jumped. Cain was in the shower with him, fully clothed. The water soaked his shirt instantly.

"Don't cry," Cain murmured. He grabbed a bar of soap and began to wash Dante’s back. His touch was firm, rough, but thorough.

"Why are you doing this?" Dante sobbed, leaning his forehead against the wet tiles. "Just kill me or ransom me. Stop playing house."

Cain pressed his chest against Dante’s back. He leaned down, his lips brushing Dante’s ear.

"I've watched you for six months, Dante. I watched you leave the club at 4 AM, alone. I watched you drive your car into a guardrail just to feel something. I watched you cry in your father’s office when he told you you were worthless."

Dante shivered. "Stalker."

"Guardian," Cain corrected. "I know you better than you know yourself. You don't want to go back. You want someone to keep you."

Dante spun around, shoving Cain’s chest. "You're crazy."

"Maybe," Cain said, trapping Dante between his arms. "But I'm the only one here."

The tension in the small stall snapped. Dante looked up at the scarred monster who had stolen him, and he didn't see a threat. He saw a wall. A barrier between him and the world that hated him.

Dante grabbed Cain’s wet shirt and pulled him down. It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a collision of desperation. Cain growled, lifting Dante up against the tiles, devouring him with a hunger that had been starving for half a year.