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After everything that had happened, when they were finally alone, Dante looked at her with a gaze utterly hollow and cold.
"So…" he said, slumping into a chair and lazily stretching out his legs, "Did you enjoy yourself, Lady?"
She frowned. The new name she’d taken still sounded unfamiliar. Almost wrong, though it was better than the poison-drenched, betrayal-laced "Mary."
"Enjoy what?" she asked, leaning against the pool table with her arms crossed.
After everything—after Darkcom, after the betrayal, after the White Rabbit and the freezing, after Dante’s reawakening and the Sparda family reunion (with all its painfully melodramatic brotherly theatrics)—here they were again, right back where it all began. His office. The place was hardly fit for habitation—debris from a battle that felt like a lifetime ago still littered the floor. But for a traitor and a half-demon, neither of whom were exactly legal at the moment, there weren’t many places to lay low.
Dante had cleared the worst of it—shattered glass, chunks of wall—but hadn’t bothered with the dust and grit. So they sat in what was, frankly, a dump.
Lady barely cared. After everything she’d been through, a little mess in someone else’s home was nothing.
Dante tilted his head, studying her from a different angle. The corners of his lips twitched into something dangerous—not quite a smile.
"Playing me."
Something inside Lady went cold, but she held his gaze, steady under the weight of his accusation.
Because she had played him.
"No," she said calmly. "I didn’t enjoy it."
Dante scoffed and drew his pistol—Ivory, its white frame catching the dim light, the engraving stark against the gleam.
"Why not?" he pressed. "Had to be fun, right? First shoving a torture device into me, then using me, then—when I stopped being useful—tossing me into a freezer like some fucking leftover takeout. Then thawing me out, wiping my memory, and lying to my face just to use me again. Sounds like a goddamn puppet show. Wasn’t it?"
"No." Her jaw tightened. "No, Dante, I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—"
"Didn’t mean to?" He cut her off with a sharp laugh. "Funny. Sure as hell didn’t look that way. Playing me. Playing my trust. Using me. You’re still doing it, Lady. Still using me. Hiding from politicians and cops in my shithole. Isn’t that right?"
Her fists clenched, but she had no retort. He was right. Disgustingly, absolutely right.
It had been easier. Following orders. Turning a blind eye to injustice. Ignoring the fact that he’d genuinely wanted to help her. Lying to him. Playing him.
It had been easy.
And god damn it, the realization burned—because if she’d done the right thing instead of the easy thing, he wouldn’t be looking at her like this now. Wouldn’t be pushing her away when she finally understood that…
She pushed off the pool table. Straightened up. Turned on her heel toward the door.
"I’ll go," she said. "I won’t burden you."
Silence answered her.
Her footsteps echoed like gunshots in the quiet—a funeral march for whatever friendship they’d had, for whatever else might’ve grown from it.
At the door, Lady didn’t look back—couldn’t bring herself to—but she forced out one last apology:
"I’m sorry, Dante." The words scraped out of her throat. "I didn’t want it to… go like this. At first, yeah, I hated you. But later, when we… when I… when I saw who you really were—not just the demon, but you—I never wanted to hurt you. I fucked up. I know that. And I can’t fix it. But I need you to know I didn’t want to. I just… got lost. Got scared. Fuck, I was stupid, and you paid for it. I’m sorry. If I could take it back—"
She shook her head, unable to finish. Better to leave now before she humiliated herself further.
But before her hand even touched the doorknob, movement flashed behind her—fast, predatory. She barely had time to react before she was grabbed, spun around, and shoved against the wall beside the exit. Instinct made her struggle, but Dante—who else?—held her fast, pinning her wrists and trapping her hips with his own.
He loomed over her, studying her with the same cold detachment.
"What would you do," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, "if you could take it back?"
Lady swallowed.
The man in front of her wasn’t the Dante she’d met all that time ago. This one was sharper. Angrier. And somehow… closer to her. More real.
"I’d never do what I did," she whispered, staring straight into his slitted pupils, his pale, chapped lips.
He watched her for a long moment. Weighing. Testing. Dead serious.
She didn’t look away, laid bare before him.
"Why?" he asked, and the pain in his voice—raw, barely leashed—was almost too much to bear.
Lady shut her eyes for a second, inhaling deeply, like she was bracing for a plunge. The air smelled like heat, musk, and gunpowder.
It smelled like Dante, and it was a good smell.
She took the leap.
"Because you matter to me." Her voice was rough. "Because I don’t want to lose you. Because I want to be around you."
Eyes still closed—coward—she braced for his reaction. She was a soldier, a warrior, and yet here she was, laid bare like some lovestruck girl, saying too much, too soon, for the fragile peace between them.
She waited. And waited. And—
Silence. Only the pounding of their hearts—hers frantic, his deep and steady—marked the passing seconds.
Then his grip loosened. But he didn’t pull away.
Lady almost asked what he was thinking—almost dared to—but before she could, warm breath brushed her lips, followed by the soft press of his mouth against hers.
She flinched.
It wasn’t even a kiss, really. Just skin on skin. But it sent a jolt through her, electric and sweet.
When he pulled back, her eyes flew open—and met Dante’s. No longer cold. No longer distant. Just Dante—smirking, familiar, alive.
"Like that?" he asked, straightening just enough to stop crowding her. His long white hair swayed, catching on the stubble along his jaw. "Or did I read you wrong?"
Warmth pooled in Lady’s stomach. Her eyes stung. She smiled, rose onto her toes, hooked her arms around his neck, and pulled him down.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Like that."
And kissed him.