Chapter 10: The Scent of Fear

She was unraveling.

And he could smell it.

Dante stood outside her apartment, fists clenched at his sides.

Her scent—her fear—was thick in the air, poisoning his lungs.

It wrapped around him, hot and sharp. Drowning him.

His jaw tightened.

He shouldn't be here.

He should have stayed away.

But the second he felt it—the moment the air changed and her fear hit him like a punch to the chest—

He ran.

His body had moved before his mind could stop it. Before his pride could stop it.

Now he was here.

Watching. Listening. Breathing her in.

And what he smelled—

It wasn't right.

This wasn't the normal kind of fear. Not the kind humans had when they were startled or running from something.

This was deeper.

This was primal.

And it didn't make sense.

Dante narrowed his eyes, listening past the silence.

A heartbeat. Erratic. Unstable.

Hers.

She was alone.

Then what the hell was she so afraid of?

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

She should be fine. She should be recovering by now, not—this.

Not trapped in whatever nightmare had its claws in her.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.

He should leave.

But he didn't move.

Because the scent in the air—the terror, the desperation, the confusion—it was making something inside him snarl.

Something dark.

Something possessive.

Dante's fingers twitched.

He had spent days convincing himself she wasn't his problem.

That she was just a mistake.

But right now—standing here, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing, drowning in the scent of her fear—

He wanted to tear something apart.