Disclaimer: Huntik Secrets and Seekers belongs to Iginio Straffi. How dare he...

"La envidia va tan flaca y amarilla porque muerde y no come."

— Francisco de Quevedo

Cold, blue eyes barely visible underneath a dark grey flat cap and a pair of large hands hidden underneath the darkest leather gloves Dante had ever seen. He may not remember the man's name, but he certainly remembered the all too familiar manner in which he casually leaned his weight against Zhalia's svelte shoulder. The sudden coldness in his gaze disappeared as a lazy grin spread across his lips. One, two rows of teeth the man showed now, the lines of his eyes crinkling in mirth as he and the woman next to him shared a smile, completely unaware of the remaining people in the room.

It made Dante's insides crawl.

Bogotá, Colombia (3 weeks ago)

"… which is why you'll be instructed to go to the Russian countryside tomorrow to retrieve the final piece." The click-clack of computer keys mixed with the buzzing of the cars and obnoxious chatter, engulfing Guggenheim and the two seekers sitting across from him in the small coffee table. Golden midday light stained the glass windows and painted the cobblestone red beneath their feet; it was the kind of light that stung the eyes and burned the skin. Under a pair of large obscure sunglasses and a fresh pastis in his right hand, Guggenheim spoke without a care in the world. "Word of advice: make sure you take someone who's familiar with the region. As in, every corner, every alley, every pisshole," Zhalia made a face of derision. "Chances are that last piece is extremely well hidden. There's a reason no one's ever found it in over three hundred years."

"Who exactly did you have in mind?" Dante leaned closer to the older man; his own gaze was concealed behind the dark green of his own sunglasses. His right elbow came to rest on the edge of the rickety table mindful of the damp circle of condensation left earlier by Guggenheim's cold drink. "I would have thought you'd asked Scarlett. Last I heard from her, she left for the Ukraine to translate the scripts transferred from the safe house in Italy."

Zhalia inwardly sneered. Abruptly, the intensity of the day's heat seemed to increase tenfold, almost suffocating her throat and stuffing her head full of scorching cotton. Dante's last words already told her two things. One: he has been keeping in touch with the strawberry blonde recently. And two: he was considering bringing her along on this mission the entire time. The sharp pain in the left side of her head was throbbing in time with the flashing of the traffic lights.

This mission is going to take three weeks, at least. Three long, insufferable weeks of idiotic looks and casual touches between her and…

Russian countryside, of course.

"I actually know someone. For the mission, that is."

Both men turned to look at her, surprise evident in their postures. Guggenheim smiled at her as his fingers ceased their typing. He leaned back in the frail wooden chair with an exhaust of air, the green liquid of the pastis swirling with the flick of his thick wrist. He took one long swig of the drink then licked his lips to rid of the sugary sweetness. "Really?" One blonde eyebrow raised mockingly. "And I assume this 'someone' is…"

"He's not an organization suit, if that's what you're asking." She raised her own eyebrow in defiance.

Guggenheim placed his glass back on the surface of the table then proceeded to raise both hands in front of his chest as if to placate the sudden tension. "Of course not, of course not," he gave a sheepish laugh. "I was just wondering how you knew him. Harmless enough, right?"

Zhalia's stare remained impassive. The air was thick with humidity; Sweat pooled in the crook of her neck, one lone bead trailing down her chest then disappearing between the valley of her breasts. Behind them, a mother and her child stopped in front of a street vendor to buy two ice cream cones: one macchiato and one vanilla. Within seconds they quickly began to melt, leaving a creamy beige puddle seeping through the cracks of the steaming sidewalk under the unforgiving yellow rays. Back at their table Zhalia spoke again. "He's an old friend."

"Oh? Where did you—"

"And we'll leave it at that."

The older seeker looked down then nodded his head, a silent gesture of agreement. "Right. Well, then I'll let you contact your friend," he made sure to stress the last word. "And then I'll send the mission details with Dante once he touches down in Venice. Anything you'd like to add?" He gave a pointed look towards the russet hair seeker, noticing his lack of input towards the last part of the conversation.

Dante stayed silent for two seconds, his lips pursed in a tight line. Strangers who saw his current expression would think he was in deep contemplation, but Guggenheim knew better. Dante was annoyed, and he bet he knew why. Suffice to say, the word "friend" had something to do with it.

So he liked messing with the kid, sue him.

After more unwarranted silence, Guggenheim decided to finally end their impromptu meeting. "Well then, if everything is clear I'll let the two of you go. Please let me know when you reach your location. And remember," Two more sips and one empty glass later, the older man pushed his chair back then tipped his sunglasses up from the tip of his nose. He flashed both an all-knowing grin.

"We're all friends here so let's try to get along."

Kalach, Sverdlovsk Oblast (current time)

Where Bogotá was sweltering and blinding, Kalach was as frigid and desolate as the frozen tundra that surrounded its village. A pristine white blanket of snow stretched as far as the eye could see while a drizzling shower sprinkled the rustic metal of the broken fences. The naked trees seemed to sprout from the murky slush, their twiddling branches crackling harshly under the whipping arctic air. Behind them, the iron railroad tracks of the rumbling trains marred the whiteness of the village with their clouds of puffy smoke and withered exterior. Burned cheeks mirrored the numbness in their fingertips as the grey skies above their heads grew darker, angrier as the seconds ticked by.

Ultimately, the village was the perfect epitome of "when hell freezes over".

Huddling inside a run-down cottage seven miles from the nearest train station, six seekers and one guide took shelter from the bitter cold outside. Zhalia's teeth mildly clattered as she spoke, "Everyone, this is Ilya." Arms wrapped around her shivering frame in desperation for warmth she jutted her chin in the tall man's direction.

Easily over six feet tall with a mop of honey brown soft curls adorning the head above his shoulders, Ilya Macovich was a man who spoke of stern eyes and even more stern words. He huffed a gruff Привет to the others in a questionable attempt at an amicable welcome as his bright eyes looked forward, his weight shifting from side to side twice. Overall, he was a very handsome man; His elegant features contrasted with his rugged nature beautifully. The man seemed to try to blend in with surroundings, however, his striking profile made him stand out more than he cared to admit. His native accent was prominent as he said, "I'll be taking you to your next destination tomorrow morning."

Too cold and tired to discuss more, the group nodded in agreement as they each took their leave. One by one, the small room inside the cottage was left deserted, simple pleasantries quickly exchanged in preparation for the next day.

Three feet outside of the room's entrance, Dante suddenly turned back inside. He stopped himself just a hairs breadth away as his eyes widened at the sight before him.

Ilya placed his hands on the female seeker's shoulders as he tentatively pulled her towards the sturdy plane of his chest; he then whispered softly into her hair, on the tender spot slightly above her ear. And Zhalia, Zhalia Moon, with her permanent scowl and snappish attitude.

She smiled.

She was six and sported dirty matted hair and crusted dirt between her nails. Her small sweet face and lovely upturned nose contrasted comically with the loud grumbling of her empty stomach, only growing with the light scuffle of her cold, small feet as she scurried to the end of the hallway.

He had just turned eight. His soiled boots stomped with each step he took, the shoelaces once yellow now appearing more rustic brown as they danced loosely out of their tied confines. The young boy displayed one charming chipped tooth and wore clothes with more holes than a block of Swiss cheese.

Perhaps in any other circumstance this would have been endearing and not as sad as it truly was.

A tiny arm reached for the brass doorknob above as its owner stood on her tiptoes, little fingers barely brushing the rustic edge. She whined, a mixture of hunger and frustration plaguing the feeble child.

Seeing everything from the opposite side of the room, the boy looked at her for a full five seconds before deciding her shrilling noises were far too irritating to hear any longer. He trudged over, almost tripping on his left shoelace, then lightly pushed her to the side as he wrapped his slightly bigger hand over the doorknob. He gave it a firm grip, just like his dad had taught him, then turned his wrist to the right as the door was left ajar.

The girl's bright doe eyes looked at him in wonder, as if opening doors was the most incredible thing she ever saw. Her lips formed a small "O" before she dashed through the corridor, the tip-tap of her bare feet disappearing as she turned the corner.

No "Thank you!" was given. In fact, no words had ever left the girl's lips. Nevertheless, her gaze of fascination spoke volumes to the young boy who felt the feelings of loneliness slowly melt under her warm eyes.

Zhalia and Ilya met for the first time in an orphanage on a cloudy day.

At the best of times, Zhalia was indifferent towards her surroundings. At the worst of times, she displayed a repulsive mood that annoyed the brave and terrorized the meek. But there was one thing they could all agree on: close contact with other people outside of their group was unheard of.

It would appear their Russian guide was a grand exception.

Sophie looked at the two people in front on her, her eyes blinking again and again in disbelief. Ilya Makovick had driven them to the southern border of the city where they now stood in anticipation waiting to cross the railroad and march underground. Although Ilya provided directions, Dante led the expedition and gave final order and measure of how they would proceed; It was understood that both men were to work closely together for the duration of the mission. As it were, neither of them shared more than ten words since they arrived.

Zhalia, on the other hand, has spoken more in the past two days than she had in past two years since joining their group.

Not to them, not exactly, but to Ilya. While Lok and the Fears brothers strayed behind admiring the overwhelming amount of snow, Sophie and Dante walked in the middle of their company keeping watch of the trail. Ilya and Zhalia, however, strolled almost leisurely in front of everyone, their sides brushing swiftly as they spoke animatedly amongst each other. Sophie had never seen Zhalia smile as much as she did then. Her furrowed brows and narrowed gaze were replaced by round, sparkling eyes and a rosy hue that brightened her lovely alabaster complexion. A soft smile accentuated the delicate lift of her lips as long, dark eyelashes fluttered rapidly with every phrase.

Honestly, it was like looking at a completely different person.

The same could be said for Dante. Usually calm and amiable, the russet hair seeker was now uptight and silent—almost unapproachable. A starling contrast to his usual mien.

Sophie may be considered one the smartest seekers in the Huntik Foundation but even she knew it didn't take a genius to know why the sudden change in both seekers' demeanor.

Zhalia's gaze was enraptured by honey curls and vivid blue eyes. Dante's glower grew darker with the scene in front of him.

Ironically, it seemed Ilya Macovick was none the wiser.

Gathered around a small bonfire and its lingering smoke, the seekers and their Russian guide sat in thick silence, contemplating the most appropriate approach for the next phase of their mission. A sense of urgency seemed heady, heavier than that of the actual smoke floating around them.

"We would have to take off before dawn, preferably after midnight," Dante's voice seemed louder amidst the hollow, rickety foliage of the forest. His eyes rapidly scanned the drawn terrains in front of them. "The sky should be dark by then."

"Of course it'll be dark, it's night."

"He means completely dark, Den, we can't move under the full moon. We'll be exposed," Sophie explained. The Casterwill heiress narrowed her eyes deep in thought. "We'll have to rely on location spells to make it in time."

"Absolutely not. As of now, all magic is prohibited," Ilya looked directly at the group. "That means no spells, no artifacts, definitely no titans. The minute they sense anything, we'll be ambushed."

The seekers looked at one another in exasperation. They sensed something like this might occur, which is why they opted to leave Cherit with Metz throughout the duration of the mission. Evidently, they were running out of viable options.

"Then how do you suggest we move? Without our seeker powers, we're left stranded," Harrison's frustration seemed to only grow as the discussion progressed. "Forget exposed, we'll be completely vulnerable!"

"Maybe, maybe not," Zhalia reached into her thigh-strapped pouch and pulled a small, carton box from inside. The female seeker smirked in Ilya's direction. "They may have magic, but we've got home field advantage."

The box was opened to reveal several matches. Zhalia took one out then rubbed it against the rough side of the box giving way to the small flame. Its fluorescent light mirrored the brightness of the scarlet hue from the fire in front of them. Zhalia brought the match forward as she turned her body askew, then proceeded to place it in front of a nearby branch.

"Zhalia, what do you think you're doing?" Sophie screeched. "You'll burn this whole forest!"

Bracing for the beginning of a drastic forest fire, the group was surprised that nothing of the sort happened. At least, not immediately. After a lick of the tiny flame from the match touched the bark, an amber spark ignited. This spark traveled upwards on the trunk, intertwining to display a foreign symbol. A symbol that suddenly became familiar to them; it was the crest of the family who owned the territories. "They can use all the magic they like, they still won't have this,"

"What is 'this'?" Sophie leaned forward to look at the illuminated part of the branch. "Where did you get this?"

"The directions are hidden in the bark…" Lok stared in wonder at the new sight. By all standards, this technique was nothing groundbreaking but therein lied its success. It was so simple, too simple in fact, that the idea of using it was downright absurd. Much like walking down a street and having road signs, the paths also showed signs…invisible signs. Invisible—that is—unless you had the right tools. "That's why you use the matches!"

"The symbols are made using condensed nitroglycerin," Zhalia explained. "Unlike natural nitroglycerin, the condensed substance is easier to control, only visible under a flammable source," She jabbed her thumb at Sophie. "And like this one, over here, no one would think twice to light a wild flame in the middle of the forest. These symbols are practically hidden in plain sight."

Dante looked skeptically at the box of matches and the newly found directions. "You don't expect me to believe that this is actually special, let alone foolproof," he deadpanned. "They are various cryptologists at their disposal. This is standard steganography, eventually someone will uncover this."

"Yes," Ilya replied. "But not anyone has access to this terrain. It's not the technique that's special, it's the actual pathway." He pointed to map in Dante's hands. "There is no written record of it, the only people who know of it are the landowners and its guardians."

"And that's our advantage," Zhalia looked at the russet hair seeker, an air of anxiousness exuding from her. "This is exactly why Ilya is perfect for this mission, he's the only outsider who even knows of these routes." She then turned to the rest of the group, her voice grave. "I won't lie, by the time we arrive, the enemy would be right behind. If we cut through the forest, we can cut our time in half. We don't have to be the only ones there so long as we get there first."

Two seconds passed before everyone followed Zhalia's gaze and turned to Dante. On his part, Dante pursed his lips and looked at Ilya who only raised an eyebrow.

Finally, the lead seeker spoke, "Then it's decided. We'll follow the hidden signs until we breach the entrance. Ilya will be the vanguard. Lok, Den, Harrison, you will be guarding the pathway. Sophie and Zhalia will chart while I lead the way." He stood up, carefully folding the map and placing it inside his coat. He raised his wrist and looked at the hour hand on his watch. "It's currently 22:08. We have less than two hours to prepare, I suggest you use it wisely."

In closing, they all stood up after Dante to head inside and prepare as he suggested. Out of the corner of his eye, Dante spotted Ilya and Zhalia walking together and whispering to one another. The envy inside him flared once more as he strained his ears to listen closely, somewhat confused as to why a Russian man made it a habit to secretly speak in what he assumed was perfect Spanish.

"Por su bien, espero que este plan funcione1," he walked behind the female seeker. "Se les está agotando el tiempo y los dueños se están desesperando.2"

"¿Qué quieres que haga? Está fuera de mis manos,3" she hissed. "¡Al contrario! Todo esto depende de ti y tus direcciones,4" she walked in front of Ilya, her eyes staring straight ahead. "Si llegamos antes de la madrugada, tal vez tengamos una mejor oportunidad en encontrar la última pieza5. Necesito que me ayudes a cortar más camino.6"

"Lo que quieras, corazón,7" a lazy grin spread across his lips. "Claro que, si prefieres ir con tu príncipe azul, entiendo completamente,8"

"Tu preocúpate por el camino y deja de chingar la madre que ya me quiero largar,9" her blush comically darkened. She then spoke through gritted teeth, "¡Y ya déjalo en paz!10"

This only served to amuse Ilya further. He leaned over her left shoulder and whispered in her ear. "A batallas de amor, campo de plumas…,11"

"Would you—!" Zhalia caught Dante's reproving glance in their direction and quickly looked away in embarrassment. She kept her gaze downward as she briskly walked towards the cottage, grumbling under her breath. "Call me when we're taking off."

Dante's eyes followed her until she disappeared inside, silent irritation bubbling to the surface. Personal moments between her and Ilya were constantly happening since their arrival in Kalach, emphasizing their close relationship. It also served to remind Dante that, aside from their partnership in the Huntik Foundation, he knew next to nothing about the female seeker.

He looked once more at his watch. Time was quickly running out.

And, in all sincerity, so was his patience.

Seventeen years. That's how long Zhalia and Ilya knew each other. Although seeing them interact, one would think they had been married for twenty. And every day Dante was constantly reminded of such.

At the breakfast table, Zhalia frequently stole food from Ilya's plate and drank from his cup, finishing the latter. Ilya paid no mind, just simply grabbed the pitcher and filled it again. For her.

Trudging down the railway path, Ilya rested his chin on her shoulder and let his weight settle on her back. His nose buried itself amidst her dark tresses while Zhalia seemed completely oblivious to his ministrations and studied the map in her hands.

By the fireplace, a tattered quilt was wrapped around them both, the frayed fabric muffling the sound of their subtle whispering as Zhalia's eyes began to droop from exhaustion and her head nestled in the crook of Ilya's neck with a sense of familiarity that stung.

It all came so naturally. And that in itself is what struck the russet hair seeker the most.

What began as an irritating prickle of annoyance soon morphed into a fervent roar of covetous bitterness. He loathed it so much, his stomach churned and his jaw bruised by how hard he clenched in silent rage. The shared glances, the casual touches, the vivid past Zhalia and Ilya shared that Dante knew he would never obtain in the lifespan to come.

But beneath the underlying layer of anger was a deep ocean of heartache. The staggering weight of his sadness seemed to crush his lungs and choke his throat every time he caught a glimpse of her rare, sincere smile. A smile that—for all his attempts—was never directed at him.

His hands twitched seeing her fall into the other man's arms. His heart ached as each caress was welcome and returned with an affection so loving and genuine it was almost foreign coming from her.

And so, the russet hair seeker was subjected to watch as the object of his affection was showered with affection, none from his own.

Dante peered at them through a cracked windowpane. Obscured by the dimness of the 64-watt lightbulb hanging loosely on a metal wire, they were locked in an embrace amidst the falling snow. Zhalia's lips moved as she whispered something for his ears only, a lonesome tear leaving a marred streak down her supple cheekbone. And Ilya, ever the gentleman, cupped her small face and wiped the tear with his right thumb as he gently kissed her forehead.

Behind that same window, Dante took one last look. Inside him, he felt a void so big and heavy it mirrored that of the night sky. And despite the coldness outside, the despair he felt within was infinitely much more frigid than all the northern wind could bring.

On the day of their departure, the weather was as grey and bitter as the day they arrived. Somehow, it felt all that much colder.

"Dante,"

The seeker in question bristled, an irritating prick settling in him at the lightness—almost aloof—tone of her voice. After days of being casted aside for the Slavic man, Dante held little restraint in his vexation. "What?"

Startled at his sharp tone, Zhalia's eyes widened and her shoulders jumped. His cold attitude was an abrupt take to an otherwise nostalgic week on her part, leaving her momentarily dumbfounded. "I-I was just going to say Ilya found the plane where the last piece is hidden," she stammered. "The excavation will be done three days earlier; we'll finish sooner than expected—"

"Done. Then I'll leave tonight. You're in charge of documenting the findings to Guggenheim and making the transfer to the safe house," he brushed past her, his eyes narrowed as he made his way towards the front door. "Notify the rest."

"Wait!" Delicate fingers gripped the fabric of coat while a pair of round eyes blinked desperately at him. Zhalia's face was pleading. "I was hoping we could, with the three days, that we could, I thought—"

In another place at another time, Dante would have found this particular scene endearing. Now, however… "I'm cold and exhausted in an unfamiliar place. I'm leaving." A wave of jealousy resurfaced as his eyes landed on Ilya's discarded coat by the back hanger, his words completely unchecked. "Why don't you ask our Russian guide?" He sneered in her direction. "We both know he won't say no."

The downturn of her brows and the quivering of her lips came incredibly fast, only slightly slower than the guilt that consumed him immediately after. His heart broke at her crestfallen expression. "… Zhalia, I'm—"

"Don't," her dark hair concealed the sudden sadness in her tear-filled eyes. She turned the opposite way and tried to walk out the door when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against his chest. Zhalia's body stiffened under him as her hands froze. "Dante, what are you—?"

"Please just listen," he shut his eyes as tight as he could and inhaled the sweet scent of her beautiful, soft hair, tears of his own beginning to form. "I have no right to ask this of you but please, listen." In front of him, he felt Zhalia's tension slowly drift away. And that's when he spoke.

"I know I will never be able to understand you as well as Ilya can, I know that. All I want…" His voice broke as his true emotions were brought to light. "All I want is the chance to at least try." The russet hair seeker pressed himself even closer to Zhalia, his face pressed to the blades of her slender shoulders.

Zhalia slowly turned around, her eyes wide and round as she cupped his face in her hands. Standing on her tip toes, she lovingly placed a kiss to his forehead and pressed their faces together, giving him a fond smile. "There's nothing else I'd like more."

Her small hands were clasped in Dante's larger ones, such a small token of affection enunciated by the brush of his lips against her knuckles. His face then inched closer to hers, their noses brushing as they met in a chaste kiss. He could feel the blood thrumming rapidly beneath his chest, the adrenaline rushing from his center to the tip of his fingers, trembling to pull her much, much closer.

The warmth soon gave way to an engulfing embrace, the kiss becoming more profound, far more passionate as he pulled the female seeker astride on his lap. His lips caressed her cheek, then traveled downwards to linger on her sharp jaw before burying his face in the junction of her neck. He placed a soft kiss before tentatively licking the expanse of her svelte throat, slowly dragging the tip of his wet tongue across the heaving plane of her breast. And, in a fit of possessiveness, sank his teeth harshly. This elicited a loud gasp from Zhalia, soon morphing into a high-pitched whine as she threw her head back in a direct invitation for more.

The russet hair seeker growled as he placed himself between her parted thighs, his right hand traveling upwards and cupping a round globe as his groin gyrated against her pelvis. Zhalia's heavy panting coupled with the sting of her pull on his hair ignited the heat inside of him even more. He firmly grabbed her chin then plunged his tongue deep, tracing the wet contours of her mouth with languid flicks and rough bites.

He didn't mean to be so rough, but days of frustration and bitterness gave way to an unbridled desire and a sense of urgency that made his hands tremble and his mind race. He needed her, needed to feel her, taste her, hold her until he knew for a fact that she belonged to him as much as he belonged to her.

And right here, in this very moment, embraced in his strong arms and feeling the want and desperation of his warm lips and rough hands on her body, Zhalia had only one thought:

Check-fucking-mate.

Zhalia was a lot of things but she wasn't blind—she knew jealousy when she saw it. Hell, out of everyone in their group, she was probably the most envious. But if jealousy really was a competition, Dante was currently the runner-up.

To be completely honest, she hadn't intended for things to escalate as far as they did. It had been years since she had seen her friend and the sentimentality clearly showed. And how could it not? She grew up with the Russian man and shared many special moments, moments that had not been spoken of until she met him again. Their friendship was one of the very few things from her past that she remembered with kindness, ergo its importance. Her excitement at seeing him was not only justified, but clearly expected.

What hadn't been expected were the limits to Dante's jealousy.

Kudos to the man, though. Zhalia had not become aware of any of it until the mission was well underway. Which meant that either Zhalia was terrible at reading human emotions or Dante was just that good at hiding his own. A combination of both, most likely.

By the time Zhalia began to uncover the source of Dante's displeasure, she felt a mixture of guilt and satisfaction. She cared deeply for the russet hair seeker and hated seeing him distraught. On the other hand, there were Scarlett, Lin, those Amazonian women, the receptionist from—

It went without saying that satisfaction clearly won out.

Ilya, ever the helpful gentleman that he was, decided to help her on this small side quest of hers because he wanted to see his closest friend happy and because "Have you seen this godforsaken place? What else am I supposed to do?" Direct quote from the Russian man, Scout's honor.

It didn't take much to fake Ilya's "romantic inclination" towards Zhalia. Ilya had always been extremely affectionate towards her since they we're small children, so much so that at this point in their lives Zhalia didn't even register it. Of course, in the presence of people who never witnessed her so much as greet anyone, she could understand the confusion and— in Dante's case—indignation. All Zhalia had to do was return Ilya's affection with the same level of intensity, which in normal circumstances would only happen in Ilya's dreams.

Zhalia knew that Dante was a reasoning person, so Ilya's touchy-feely behavior would not ruffle any feathers. Dante was just too kind of a person to express anger at things he had not control over, like say someone else's actions. If he felt that the affection was one-sided, there would be no reaction. But if the feeling was shown to be mutual, well, this whole mission and its proceedings were testaments to that.

Admittedly, Dante's momentary ire shocked her. And…excited her? It was initially surprising, yes, but later exhilarating and—dare she say—arousing. And by the time Zhalia had full comprehension of the situation, she had the handsome seeker practically eating out of her hand.

A bright smile directed at the Russian man made Dante frown. Moreover, a casual touch on Ilya's shoulder was met with an angry huff and a lock of his jaw. And how could she forget the "heartfelt conversation" she had with Ilya outside in the snow? Although the negative temperatures were giving her an early case of frostbite, the angle of Dante's view from the window and the illuminated spot right under the lightbulb gave him the perfect seat for their, ahem, heart-to-heart chat. The tear was the final nail on the coffin and damn, was she proud of it.

Zhalia had every single instance, every action carefully measured and calculated. Any course that played out was anticipated with an underhanded rebuttal to yield the result best suited in her favor. Dante no longer had to act a certain way; Zhalia just manipulated him into doing so.

On her side of the bed, her eyes roamed over the russet seeker's sleeping form. His bare back rose up and down with each breath he took. Her slender hand ran through his short hair, a single strand twirling around her index finger and catching the light of the sun, making it almost burn. Oh, how she loved him so…

They say envy is a basic human emotion, intuitive and unable to be controlled. Zhalia, however, would have to disagree. The love marks all over her body we're proof of that.

So, yes. Check-fucking-mate.

A/N:

Hands down, the hardest, longest story I've written for this fandom. To those who may be confused, long story short: Zhalia learns to exploit Dante's jealousy to truly gain his affection. Messed up? Yeah, that was my point.

My interpretation is that Dante and Zhalia love each other just as fervently; the difference lies in how they express it. Zhalia, in her own twisted, psychotic manner and Dante in his idyllic way. When I write for Zhalia, my headcanon is how dark she can be. I love portraying her that way, it's just so much fun! But that's just my take on it, nothing to take too seriously lol.

The Spanish is there because I've been contemplating writing in Spanish (it's my first language). As to why a Russian is speaking Spanish, I like having different nationalities speak different languages, kind of like me. Also, I just like it.

Lastly, take the whole "condensed nitroglycerin" with a grain of salt. I totally bullshitted that; I don't know anything about science xD.

I've been working on this for close to eight months. I haven't been active because, well, I sort of grew up. I graduated, I moved to a different city, found a house, got a job, lost a job, etc. Feels good to write for my first OTP again, though. It's nice to get my mind off things.

I still have something super cute and adorable planned for these two (gotta balance all the dark stuff, no?) I'll keep you guys posted on that! Actually, no, you'll just see it pop up on this site haha. Thank you so much for all your support, I'm so grateful to anyone who reads it and even more for your reviews. See you in the next story, take care guys!

TRANSLATION NOTES:

1 "For your sake, I hope this plan works"

2 "You're running out of time and the owners are getting desperate."

3 "What do you want me to do? It's out of my hands!"

4 "On the contrary! This all depends on you and your directions,"

5 "If we make it before daybreak, we may have a better opportunity of finding the last piece."

6 "I need you to help me find a shortcut," *Literally meaning, "cut more ground", i.e. making the way shorter.

7 "Whatever you want, love" *Direct translation of "corazón" is heart but calling someone heart is not as natural as calling someone "love". Either way, they are both pet names and the slight mistranslation is not drastic.

8 "Of course, if you prefer to go with your prince charming, I completely understand,"

9 "You just worry about the path and stop busting my balls, I want to get the hell out of here." *"Chingar la madre" is a vulgar phrase that means to annoy or keep bugging someone. There is no direct translation in English, however, in my opinion "busting my balls" is the closest to its context. Since Zhalia is a woman though, it might sound somewhat strange. It should be noted that "chingar la madre" has no designated grammatical gender.

10 "And leave him alone!"

11 "In battles of love, field of feathers" (Literal translation)*This is a Spanish saying and it means that the best option for solving relationship problems is to relax and release tension. It also references solving relationship problems by having sex. Hence, Zhalia's blush in this scene. Ilya was teasing her.