When Heroes Fall (Anti-Heroes in Love 1)

Anger fueled me better than coffee ever could as I wrenched open drawers until I found a pair of black leggings and a sports bra. I knew there was a gym somewhere in the massive apartment, and I decided I’d lift weights in bare feet because I didn’t have appropriate shoes.

Tying my hair in a messy bun, I quickly applied some mascara and lip tint before leaving the room.

I wasn’t the kind of woman who went anywhere without looking her best.

I found the gym almost immediately down the same corridor as my bedroom on the second level, at the end of the hall where it opened into a massive space lined with mirrors on one side and floor-to-ceiling windows on the other. My eyes immediately sought out the view of the nightscape through the glass, transfixed by the glitter of lights like sequins woven into the velvet night. I walked to the window and touched my hand to the cool glass as if I could feel the texture of the night beneath my fingertips.

“New York City is the most beautiful at night.”

I closed my eyes against the sound of his voice, furious with myself because a small part of me, something wild and unbridled in my chest, had hoped I might run into him.

“Then again, most things are,” Dante continued as he appeared in my periphery, a monumental shadow next to me.

I didn’t turn to look at him. “I’m a terrible sleeper, so I’ve come to enjoy the night. It’s peaceful. Sometimes it feels like you’re the only one awake in the entire world.”

“Mmm, that seems rather lonely,” he murmured. “Night should be spent on passion.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring his light chuckle. “Fucking indiscriminately, you mean?”

“Oh, Elena, be careful cursing around me,” he purred darkly, moving just a little closer. “I like the sound of something dirty in that red mouth.”

I told myself the tingle I felt at the base of my back was from a cold draft in the room.

“If I’m going to stay here, there must be rules,” I decided primly, finally turning to face him.

My God.

I turned back to the window immediately, seeking solace in the New York night.

Because Dante was half naked beside me.

The broad expanse of his chest was quilted with deeply defined muscle, his abs a boxed chain in his abdomen, his pectorals round and hard topped by dark nipples covered in light, crisp black hair. An ornate silver cross hung at the end of a thick chain around his neck, the tip of the cross resting in the crease between his chest and tight belly, sexy in a way that was blasphemous. But it was the corded length of his arms, the ripple of muscle in biceps the size of my thighs that had my legs clenching together against a vague ache at my core.

He was astoundingly magnetic, a perfectly formed monster of a man.

The sheer size and strength of him should have made me tensed, frightened. Christopher was a quarter the size of Dante, and I knew from experience what a man that slight could do to a woman if he tried.

Yet the barely harnessed power kind of…aroused me.

I was a woman who appreciated control. Therefore, I appreciated the care Dante must have taken to build that body and take care with it around others. I’d seen him hold Cosima’s face tenderly, hug Yara gently, kiss Tore robustly on both cheeks, clap hands with some of his soldiers. I’d witnessed the rolling grace of that densely muscled body unfold and prowl across a room, so much control lashed around his sheer power that it made my mouth water.

That he was so robust was attractive, but it was his mastery over that power that made my knees soften like butter.

“Elena?” His voice cut into my thoughts, amusement in his tone as it always seemed to be when he spoke to me.

“Mmm?”

“I asked what kind of rules you were attempting to install in my home.”

“Ah.” Yes, rules. We needed lots and lots of rules. I cleared my throat and forced myself to face him so he would think I was unmoved by his naked torso and the thick thighs stretching his black athletic shorts. “Rule number one, no touching.”

“No,” he said simply, shaking his head in a way that made me notice he didn’t have product in his hair yet, the thick, silken strands flopping slightly onto his forehead. “I am Italian. My people are Italian. We touch.”

“Not me,” I countered.

“You ask a tiger to change its stripes just because a friendly kiss on the cheek from a countryman makes you uncomfortable?” he argued calmly, once again making me feel selfish and slightly foolish. “No one will touch you without your consent, Elena. You have my word that you are safe in this home. But, in return, I ask that you be kind to the people who live here and visit me.”