Dante refused to let the clinic doctor touch her. He brought Clara to his own master bedroom, laying her gently on the massive king-sized bed. He retrieved a first-aid kit and sat beside her.

"I can do it," Clara whispered, her face burning as Dante carefully unzipped the side of her dress, slipping it off her shoulder to expose the bloody graze on her upper arm.

"Let me take care of you for once, Clara," Dante murmured.

He cleaned the wound with meticulous care. As he worked, his knuckles brushed against the soft skin of her shoulder. Clara shivered.

Dante's eyes drifted down. He saw the faint, silvery stretch marks on her arms. He saw the softness of her stomach. He saw a body that had been ridiculed by a cruel world.

He leaned in, his lips brushing softly against the uninjured skin of her shoulder. "You are magnificent," he whispered against her skin.

Clara’s breath hitched. She looked into his dark eyes, expecting to see pity or mockery. Instead, she saw a blazing, undeniable hunger.