Kiss the assassin

Isabella POV

The moment I see him, I stop breathing.

It’s not fear. It’s not even hate.

It’s something worse.

Dante Valeri steps into my father's office like he owns the shadows clinging to his frame.

All muscle, silence, and smoldering eyes, he’s dressed in black head to toe, except for the blood on his knuckles and the cigarette burning between his fingers.

The last time I saw him, I was nineteen. Dripping wet. Heartbroken. And naked in his bed.

That night, he vanished.

This one, he walks back into my life like a loaded gun.

“Absolutely not,” I snap, folding my arms. “I don’t need a bodyguard. Especially not him.”

My father barely looks up from his glass of bourbon. “You were nearly killed last night, Isabella. Dante is the best we have.”

“The best? He disappeared for three years!”

“Because I ordered him to,” my father growls. “And now I’m ordering you to stay alive. You’ll do it under his protection.”

I laugh bitterly. “You don’t get to control me anymore.”

But Dante… he says nothing.

Not a word.

Just watches me with those dark, dangerous eyes that once saw every inch of my soul—and body.

I turn away before I do something stupid. Like ask why he left me. Like demand to know if he ever regretted it.

Instead, I storm out of the room.

He follows.

Of course he does.

-----

The hallway stretches like a noose, lined with velvet and marble, thick with silence and memories I wish I could kill.

“Isabella,” his voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher. Like gravel soaked in sin.

“Don’t talk to me,” I hiss, spinning around. “You think you can just show up and play protector now?”

His eyes flick to my lips. “I never stopped watching.”

My breath stutters.

“No, don’t you dare—”

“You were always reckless,” he murmurs. “The way you snuck out. How you’d mouth off to your father’s men. You didn’t even realize the number of times I had to clean up your messes before you noticed the blood.”

“You weren’t there when it mattered most.”

Dante steps closer. I hold my ground.

He’s taller than I remember. Broader. Scarred in places I don’t recognize. But it’s still him. My first taste of danger. My first kiss. My first everything.

And the man who showed me sweet sex.

“I came back,” he says simply.

I scoff. “Three years too late.”

His hand moves toward me—but stops just short of touching.

“You think I wanted to leave you?” he says, his voice low, broken. “They sent me away. For your safety.”

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “You’re full of shit. You left me naked and crying in your bed, Dante. You vanished. And now you want to protect me? Why?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Because you’re not safe, Isabella. Because someone wants you dead.”

I take a step back. His scent hits me—dark spice and cold steel. Familiar. Dangerous. Addictive.

“What changed?” I ask softly.

He meets my gaze. “You became the target.”

=================

Later that night, I can’t sleep.

Not because of the threats. Or the bullet holes in the east wing.

Because of him.

He’s in the room across the hall. My father insisted.

For protection.

But I don’t feel protected. I feel caged. Hunted.

I slip out of bed and walk silently to his room. I know this house better than anyone. I know how to pick the lock on any door—especially the one he never wanted me to open three years ago.

The knob turns easily.

He’s shirtless.

His back is to me. Fresh scars crisscross his spine. He’s cleaning a knife with practiced hands, but his body is still. A predator sensing prey.

“I could’ve been an assassin,” I say casually, leaning against the doorframe.

He turns slowly, eyes unreadable. “No. You’d make a terrible killer.”

I arch a brow. “Why?”

“Because you feel too much.”

The room feels hotter.

He walks toward me, bare chest gleaming in the dim light, every muscle carved like a weapon. My breath catches as he reaches me.

He leans down.

Not to kiss me.

To whisper.

“You still smell like jasmine and fury.”

My knees weaken.

I hate him.

But I want him.

His hand brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch burns.

“Go back to bed, princess,” he murmurs. “Before I remember what you taste like.”

I don’t move. “What if I want you to remember?”

Something dark flashes in his eyes.

Then he slams the door shut between us.

===============

The next morning, I find out why.

I hear it before I see it.

Gunfire. Screams.

An ambush.

I run through the halls, barefoot, silk robe flying. I hear someone shout my name—Dante’s voice. I head toward it.

The east balcony explodes in smoke and flames.

I stumble, coughing, until a pair of arms snatches me off the floor.

Dante.

He throws me behind him, shielding my body with his.

We hit the ground hard. He rolls, gun out, pinning me beneath him.

His face is inches from mine. Dust and blood streak his cheek.

“Are you hit?” he growls.

“No,” I whisper.

We freeze.

His body on mine.

His breath on my lips.

Our eyes lock.

And in that single heartbeat, I forget everything.

Except the fact that I’m still his.

His hand slips behind my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.

“You think I ever stopped wanting you?” he whispers, voice ragged.