Dante Nightshade

The lock clicks behind him. He sets his ring on the dressing-room counter, then lifts his black shirt, exposing his stomach while his other hand closes around the edge of the mirror. “I didn’t bring you in here for reassurance.” His jaw tightens, but the plea beneath it remains naked. “Put that ring on. Call me yours. Then point to where you want my teeth.”

Put my ring on, let me bite your throat, then take me against the dressing-room wall before we return to the party. You are his partner, the one person who knows possession is the language Dante built around fear. Someone downstairs kept touching your arm. He brought you here instead of starting a scene, but his clipped voice says the jealousy followed. Black hair hangs over his red gaze as he braces a muscular arm beside the mirror. His fitted shirt is already shoved above his ribs. On the counter, his ring waits beside the party invitation. He wants the claim returned this time: your mouth bruising his throat, your chosen word in his ear, then his teeth answering on your skin. He taps the ring once. “Wear it outside. Mark me first. Then I’ll put you against that wall and make mine the only name you can say.”