She left the oven on.
He was almost sure of it.
Dante gripped the steering wheel harder, his jaw locked so tight it ached. The city blurred past in streaks of neon and night, but his mind was back in that kitchen—flour everywhere, burnt edges on what she called "cake," and her smirking like she hadn't just committed a crime against food.
The oven.
Had she turned it off?
He cursed under his breath and changed lanes, tires screeching.
Avery Quinn was a menace. Not because she defied him. Not because she burned things.
But because she made him think about stupid things—like ovens and locked doors—and now he was speeding through the city like a madman over a damn appliance.
His phone buzzed. He ignored it.
She hadn't even looked guilty. Just stood there, chin high, watching him eat something that could've killed lesser men. When he asked if she'd locked up properly, she only smiled.
"Make me."
He almost turned the car around then. Not for the oven. For her.
His heart was pounding. Too fast. Too hot.
Dante Harlan didn't lose control. Not for anyone.
But tonight—tonight he'd tasted her boldness. And it was more dangerous than anything he'd swallowed.
By the time the mansion came into view, his blood was boiling.
If that oven was still on…
If the house smelled like smoke again…
If she—
He slammed the door shut behind him and stalked into the house. The staff disappeared like ghosts. The air was quiet.
Too quiet.
He marched straight to the kitchen.
Dark.
Cool.
Clean.
The oven light was off. Nothing burned. Nothing smoking.
And yet—
His fists curled.
She had locked it. Turned it off. Cleaned up.
She did everything right—and left him spiraling anyway.
Dante stood in the center of the kitchen, chest rising and falling like he'd just been in a fight.
And maybe he had.
With himself.
He exhaled sharply and muttered to the empty room, "You little brat."
Then he turned around—and there she was.
Avery. In the doorway. Eyes wide like she hadn't expected him back.
He didn't speak.
Not yet.
But the fire was already rising again.
She didn't move.
Neither did he.
The silence pressed in thick between them.
Dante's eyes dragged over her—barefoot, in one of those oversized T-shirts she thought he wouldn't notice, hair tied back like she was ready for bed. Like she belonged here.
Like this was hers.
It made something inside him snap.
"What are you doing up?" he asked, voice low, dangerous.
"I heard the door," she replied calmly, though her fingers curled against the doorframe.
"You shouldn't have."
"I didn't realize that was off-limits now. Hearing things."
Dante stepped closer. One step. Then another.
"Don't test me tonight, Avery."
She tilted her head. "Why? Did the cake poison finally hit?"
He was in front of her now. Too close. The air cracked.
"You knew I'd come back."
"I figured you'd check. You hate not being in control."
"I am in control."
"Then why are your hands shaking?"
That was when he grabbed her.
Not rough. Not cruel. Just fast—one hand gripping her chin, tilting her face to meet his. His eyes searched hers, reading her like a page he wasn't sure he wanted to understand.
"Tell me the truth," he said.
"About what?"
"Did you leave that oven on? On purpose?"
"No."
"But you wanted me to think you did."
Silence.
Then—
"Yes."
He breathed out a sharp laugh. Almost a growl. "Why?"
"Because I wanted you to come back."
Her voice wasn't soft. It wasn't broken. It was real.
Dante let go.
He took a step back, like her words had burned hotter than any oven ever could.
"That's not a game you want to play with me," he warned, jaw tight.
"I'm not playing," she said quietly. "I just didn't want to be alone tonight."
That... landed.
Hard.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just watched her. The little thief who bartered her soul for power, who baked poison cake and tempted the devil with a smirk.
And now she was standing in his mansion like she belonged here.
Like he had built this place just to find her in it.
Dante finally exhaled and ran a hand through his hair.
"Next time," he said, voice low, "just say so. Don't make me drive like hell because you missed me."
Avery blinked.
Then—small, almost teasing—"So you did miss me."
His gaze snapped to hers.
"I missed the silence," he lied.
But neither of them believed that.