The Tyrant's Stolen Bride-Chapter 125: Into His Domain

On a remote island far from Mistvale, a luxurious bungalow stood hidden within dense, untamed forest.

No one came here unless they were invited.

Access was tightly controlled. Boat and chopper stopped at a nearby settlement, and from there, only trusted vehicles were allowed through.

Any other route meant facing the forest, a place few dared to enter and those who did never tried again.

The kidnappers had deliberately switched routes and vehicles along the way, laying false trails to mislead anyone who might be following.

No one would ever be able to trace the stronghold where Lyra was being held.

As the convoy approached the island, the moon hung low in the sky, casting a wash of silver across the water and greeting them in silence. Everything had to go exactly as planned.

Dante lounged in the chair on the balcony, patiently waiting for his people to arrive.

The ones bringing gifts meant only for him.

In the stillness of the night, the low rumble of engines crept closer, forcing its way through the forest. Headlights soon pierced the trees, slicing through the darkness.

Griffin strode up to the upper floor and stepped onto the balcony. He stopped a few paces from Dante.

"Sir, they’ve arrived."

Dante took one last drag from his cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray beside him, and rose to his feet.

They moved down the stairs with purpose and waited on the wide, shadowed porch.

The first vehicle rolled to a stop in front of them. The driver stepped out, walked around, and opened the rear passenger door himself.

Dante leaned inside, one leg braced on the jeep. His gaze fixed on the woman before him.

She lay unconscious, her body slack under the lingering effects of the sedative.

He lifted her effortlessly, her weight meaning nothing to him. He carried her as if she were something precious, that already belonged to him.

They headed toward the room prepared especially for her. Dante laid her gently on the soft mattress.

"Call the maid. Clean her up and change her clothes," Dante ordered. Griffin went straight to summon her.

Dante left the room and headed downstairs.

The jeep carrying Alex had been delayed on the island, which was why it reached the compound much later than expected.

The original plan had been to bring Lyra alone, but the men had dragged Alex along as well. Dante didn’t object. Her father posed no problem to him.

Alex was neither threatening nor dangerous. If anything, he was useful—leverage to keep Lyra obedient, a tool to ensure she never tried to run.

Stott stood on the porch, smoking, when he spotted Dante approaching. He straightened slightly.

"Report."

Dante settled into a nearby rattan chair.

"Everything went according to plan. Rowan Pierce fell right into our trap. No one will come looking for her."

"How bad is he?"

"Very. He’s in a coma."

Dante chuckled, clearly satisfied.

"Good. By the time he wakes months from now, she’ll already be carrying my child."

A smirk tugged at his lips.

Moments later, another vehicle arrived, carrying Alex, unconscious as well. The jeep halted at the porch.

"Where should we put him?" Stott asked.

"West wing. Have the best maid take care of him. I can’t treat her father any less than that," Dante said, smirking.

The expression vanished the moment his gaze dropped to Alex’s injured leg.

Dante grabbed Stott by the collar, his eyes flashing with sudden fury.

"Who shot him?" His voice was sharp, dangerous.

Stott raised both hands. "Not me. Let me call him."

Dante shoved him aside. Stott stumbled back, caught himself, then immediately went to fetch the one responsible.

The wound wasn’t serious. A bullet had only grazed Alex’s thigh but Dante would not tolerate it.

The boy was brought onto the porch. He was the same one who had gone to the clinic earlier, disguised as a police officer.

He had assumed Dante would only question him. Maybe issue a light punishment.

He was wrong.

Without warning, Dante raised the blade and hurled it with deadly precision. It struck the boy square in the forehead. He collapsed where he stood, blood gushing across the floor. His body trembled for a moment before going completely still.

Dante’s good mood was ruined by a single mistake. He had warned them—no scars, no damage. And yet, they had disobeyed.

"Clean it up. Don’t leave a single trace of blood," Dante ordered.

He wiped his hand, then dropped the cloth to the floor.

"Let this be a lesson to all of you. They are my special guests. No one is to lay a hand on them."

His gaze swept across the room in warning before he turned and headed back upstairs.

As Dante ascended the stairs, Griffin quietly urged the maids to finish their work. When the sound of boots echoed through the hall, he dismissed them immediately.

"All done, sir," Griffin reported.

"Good. Check on her father in the west wing. Make sure everything is settled. And I don’t want to be disturbed tonight."

With that, Dante stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

He moved slowly toward the bed, stopping at its edge. His gaze lingered on her as she lay curled beneath the covers.

He lingered there for a moment before turning away. Leaving the room, he stepped into his own quarters through the adjoining door.

One by one, he undid the buttons of his shirt, shrugged it off, and headed into the bathroom.

He lowered himself into the bathtub and finally allowed his body to relax, taking his time as the warmth slowly seeped in.

His thoughts drifted, before a quiet chuckle left him, amused by how patient he had been—how long he had waited for this moment.

He had finally brought her here, into his domain. She lay asleep on his bed.

This was his desperate attempt. No woman had ever entered this space before. The maids had been brought in days earlier, everything prepared in advance for her arrival.

He lit a cigarette and took a slow drag, exhaling as both hands rested on the rim of the bathtub. He stared ahead.

He remained there until the cigarette burned down to nothing. Only then did he wash up and rise from the tub, the night far from over.

Dante grabbed a robe and wore it loosely. He dried his hair with a small towel before tossing it onto the nearby sofa.

When he returned to the bedroom, he dimmed the lights, slipped beneath the covers, and drew her closer.

He pressed her body against his, felt her warmth, and breathed in her scent as his fingers grazed her soft cheek.

His thumb brushed over her lips.

He felt the surge to kiss her, but he restrained himself, closing his eyes until his breathing slowed and evened out.