Days after the announcement of the imposed engagement, the atmosphere surrounding Selene was dense and unsettling. While the castle remained cloaked in a silence filled with disdain and forced expectations, she found refuge in the city streets, where the shadows of the alleys and the whispers of beggars seemed more sincere than the cold words of her family.
That gray morning, Selene decided to leave and breathe the city air, far from the oppressive castle walls. Ayla, ever loyal, accompanied her discreetly. As they walked through the narrow streets, among stone buildings and facades worn by time, their conversation was a mixture of solace and bitterness.
"You need to break free, Selene. Don't let this engagement consume you," said Ayla, her voice soft but firm.
"I know, but fate seems to drag me into an abyss from which there's no escape," Selene replied, her eyes fixed on the ground as a shadow of pain crossed her face.
The path led them to a bustling square, where the voices of merchants and the clatter of wagon wheels mixed with a fleeting sense of freedom. However, the peace of the street was shattered when, suddenly, Selene spotted a figure that made her shiver.
It was Elowen, with fiery eyes and a venomous smile, known for her provocative spirit and for always poking at Selene's wounds. She stood there, amid the crowd, and with an arrogant expression, approached.
"Well, well, if it isn't the heiress trying to flee her fate. Who would've thought you'd dare leave the castle alone?" Elowen sneered, her voice dripping with scorn.
Selene's gaze hardened, fury boiling inside her. Without waiting for a response, Elowen continued, even more mocking:
"They say your father sold you off like merchandise. And you, my dear, hide behind gloves as if trying to erase the shame you carry!"
Something in Selene broke at that moment. In an uncontrollable impulse, she lunged at Elowen and, without thinking twice, grabbed her by the neck. The two faced off under the stunned gaze of the passersby.
"You dare provoke me?" Selene shouted, her voice a mixture of fury and pain. "You have no idea what it's like to live under this burden!"
Elowen, caught off guard, tried to free herself, but Selene held on tight, her face twisted with rage.
"Let go of me, bitch!" Elowen managed to say, struggling, her eyes wide with disbelief.
It was then that the implacable presence of Dante appeared from around the corner. He emerged from the crowd with determined steps, and before anyone could intervene, rushed in to protect Elowen.
"Selene, let her go. Now," Dante ordered, his voice cold and commanding.
But the hatred Selene felt for him was overflowing. In an act of defiance, she didn't let go of Elowen; instead, she shoved her harder and, in a sudden motion, raised her hand and slapped Dante. The sound of the impact echoed through the alleyways, drawing gasps and shocked stares from the bystanders.
Dante, seized by a flash of fury, grabbed her by the neck, cutting off her breath. His gaze was a mix of disdain and a jealousy that, though silent, burned fiercely.
"You need to control those hands of yours, Selene," he said in a dry tone, his eyes burning with restrained rage.
Freed now, Elowen let out a sarcastic laugh, mocking the scene:
"What a spectacle, Selene! Trying to own your destiny and ending up the fool!"
The tension thickened as the two stared each other down. Selene, her face contorted with anger and tears, couldn't back away. The commotion drew a crowd, and soon she found herself unable to return to the castle, surrounded by scornful looks and murmurs that clung to her like shadows.
With no way out, Selene was forced to seek shelter in an inn. The small place, dimly lit and reeking of decay, was all she could find on that torment-filled night. Upon arriving, a hostess greeted her with a mix of pity and disapproval.
"Milady, we do have a room available, but I ask that you maintain decorum," the woman said, trying to hide her discomfort.
"I don't need decorum. Just shelter," Selene snapped, still breathless from the recent altercation, tension thickening the air.
As the argument with the hostess escalated, whispers and stares spread through the lobby. That was when Dante appeared again, entering the scene with a serious expression.
"What is going on here?" he asked, his voice firm as he looked from Selene to the hostess.
"I don't want to stay here!" Selene exclaimed, irritated, trying to escape the judgmental stares.
"I'm not comfortable with this situation," the hostess added, trying to defuse the tension.
Dante looked at Selene with a mix of exasperation and dominance.
"You're staying in this room with me," he said, leaving no room for protest.
"No, I—" she began, but was cut off by his grip.
"Accept it," Dante commanded, pulling Selene close, robbing her of any chance to resist.
"You don't have a choice," he added, his voice brooking no opposition.
With no alternative, Selene yielded and followed him into a dark room, where a single lamp hung, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
Inside the room, the tension hung like a storm cloud. After a brief silence, Selene, still angry and shaken, went to the bathroom. There, she took a hot shower, letting the water wash away some of the day's humiliation—though it couldn't cleanse the mark Dante had left: the scar, the pain, the feeling of being someone's possession.
While she bathed, hidden behind the half-open door, Dante stood just outside, watching her with eyes full of desire, jealousy, and a deep unrest. Every movement she made, every drop of water sliding down her skin, etched into his memory the power she wielded—and, at the same time, the fragility he so despised.
Hours later, when Selene finally dried off and dressed in her plainest outfit, she returned to the room. Upon closing the door, the weight of the night fell heavy around them. She noticed Dante, sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless. The trembling light of the lamp revealed scars scattered across his body—marks of past battles, of pain he wore like trophies.
Selene simply stared, silently, letting that wordless scene speak for itself. In her thoughts, the memory of the words she had dared to throw at him—insults about his mother—mingled with an inexplicable sense of remorse and a hatred that, in some way, made her feel alive.
Later, as the night deepened and exhaustion finally set in, the two lay in the same bed. The room was small and dark, the sheets cold and rough beneath the faint moonlight filtering through the window. Despite their closeness, nothing happened—only the heavy silence of fate, louder than any touch.
Selene lay still, eyes on the ceiling, while Dante remained unmoved, though his thoughts churned. The ring, the mark, the humiliation, and the promise of vengeance echoed in both their hearts.
In that moment, as the first signs of dawn timidly broke on the horizon, Selene whispered to herself:
"I hate you, Dante. I hate every word, every gesture… But I swear I won't be your puppet. If I have to tear off my own finger to escape this prison, I will. Because I will never let fate define me."
The room remained silent, only their breathing filling the air. Selene closed her eyes, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade. There was no reconciliation—only the certainty that each dawn would be a new chapter in the war they waged within.
And so, in that night filled with secrets, tension, and promises of vengeance, Selene and Dante slept in the same bed—bodies close, but souls in constant conflict. Every scar, every mark, was a reminder that the fate of the Valtieri was sealed in pain, blood, and the inevitable struggle for freedom—even if that freedom was buried in the deepest shadows.