Chapter 168: Dante

POV: ISABELLA

Isabella woke to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse bedroom.

Her body ached everywhere.

Between her legs especially...a deep, throbbing soreness that made her wince when she tried to shift position.

Last night had been... intense.

Brutal.

Exactly what she’d needed.

She reached across the bed automatically, expecting to find empty sheets.

They always left.

Every man she’d brought home in the past three weeks had been gone by morning. Slipping out while she slept, leaving her to wake alone with nothing but soreness and shame.

But her hand found warm skin instead.

Isabella’s eyes flew open.

The man from last night was still here.

Sitting on the velvet couch by the window, fully dressed in last night’s clothes....dark jeans, black shirt....smoking a cigarette and looking out at Rome’s morning skyline.

He hadn’t left.

Isabella sat up slowly, pulling the silk sheet around herself, suddenly self-conscious.

"You’re still here," she said, her voice rough from screaming.

The man turned his head, dark eyes meeting hers.

"You asked me to stay."

"I know. But they never..." She trailed off. "Most men leave."

"I’m not most men."

Isabella studied him in the morning light.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair that fell across his forehead in a way that reminded her painfully of Dimitri.

Strong jaw. Sharp cheekbones. Dangerous in a way that made her body respond even though she was exhausted.

But his eyes were different.

Colder than Dimitri’s. Harder.

Like he’d seen things that had stripped away whatever softness he might have once had.

"I still don’t know your name," Isabella said.

The man smiled slightly. "I know."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because names create expectations. Connections. And this....." He gestured between them. "This isn’t about connection. Is it?"

Isabella’s face heated.

He was right.

This wasn’t about getting to know each other. About building something real.

This was about forgetting.

About using someone who looked like Dimitri to ease the ache of Dimitri’s rejection.

"No," she admitted quietly. "I suppose it’s not."

The man crushed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the side table, stood, and walked to the bed.

He sat on the edge, close enough that Isabella could smell him....cigarettes and expensive cologne and sex.

"Tell me something," he said. "How many men have there been? Since you came back to Rome?"

Isabella stiffened. "Why does that matter?"

"I’m curious. How many men have you brought to this bed? How many have you fucked while screaming another man’s name?"

The words should have made her angry.

Should have made her throw him out.

But there was something in his tone, not judgment, just... observation.

"Eight," Isabella said. "Including you. All in the past three weeks."

"And they all looked like him? Like Dimitri?"

"Yes." She pulled the sheet tighter. "I have a type, apparently."

"And do you tell them? Before you bring them home? Do you warn them that you’re going to call them by someone else’s name while they’re inside you?"

Isabella’s eyes burned.

"Yes," she whispered. "I tell them. Usually at the club, after a few drinks. I explain that I was engaged for fourteen years to a man who didn’t want me. That he chose someone else. That I use... that I use men who look like him to forget. That I might call them Dimitri during sex and they shouldn’t take it personally."

"And what do they say?"

"Most of them leave. Once they realize how broken I am, how desperate....they make excuses and disappear." Isabella’s voice cracked. "The ones who stay... they usually leave after. They fuck me once, get weirded out by the crying or the screaming his name, and I never see them again."

"But you told me," the man said. "That first night. At the club. You warned me."

Isabella tried to remember.

That first night was hazy.....too much vodka, too much pain, too much desperate need to feel wanted.

She remembered seeing him across the bar. Remembered thinking he looked like Dimitri. Remembered approaching him with liquid courage.

Had she told him?

"I don’t remember," she admitted. "I was drunk. I say the same thing to every man who looks like him. It’s become automatic at this point."

"You told me everything," the man said, his voice soft. "About your engagement. About being groomed from childhood to be Dimitri Valentino’s perfect wife. About fourteen years of loyalty and preparation. About him breaking it off for some American woman he’d known for two months. About coming back to Rome because you couldn’t stand watching him with her."

Isabella felt tears prick behind her eyes.

God, she’d really told this stranger everything.

Had spilled her pathetic story to a man whose name she didn’t even know.

"And you still came home with me," she said. "Even after hearing all that. Even knowing I was going to use you."

"Yes."

"Why?"

The man’s smile was dark. Dangerous.

"Because I like broken things," he said simply. "And you’re the most beautifully broken woman I’ve ever met."

Isabella shouldn’t have found that romantic.

Shouldn’t have felt warmth spread through her chest at his words.

But she did.

Because at least he saw her. Saw her brokenness and wanted her anyway.

Even if it was just for sex.

Even if it wasn’t real.

"Most men leave after I explain," Isabella said again. "After they realize I’m not looking for a relationship. That I’m just looking for someone who looks like him to make me forget. Why are you still here?"

The man reached out, traced her jaw with one finger.

"Maybe I like being used," he said. "Maybe I like the idea of a woman so desperate for another man that she’ll settle for my resemblance. Maybe I find it... arousing."

Isabella’s breath caught.

"You’re not normal."

"Neither are you." His hand moved to her throat, not squeezing, just holding. "That’s why this works. We’re both using each other. You use me to forget him. I use you to...." He paused. "To feel something other than empty."

Isabella understood that.

Understood using sex to fill the void inside.

"Will you stay?" she asked. "Not forever. Just... for breakfast? I could make something. We could...."

"I’ll stay," the man interrupted. "But I’m not interested in breakfast."

His hand tightened slightly on her throat.

"I’m interested in fucking you again before I leave."

Heat pooled low in Isabella’s belly despite the soreness.

"I’m still sore from last night."

"I know." His smile was wicked. "That’s what makes it better."