“Yeah,” he says, leaning in close enough that I feel the rasp of his breath. “I did.”
Dante shifts until his knees brush the edge of my mattress. His gaze flicks to my side, then steadies on my face, hesitation carved into the lines around his mouth.
My voice drops. “How’s Alicia?”
“Quinn’s taking care of her. She’ll live. But I should’ve never let it get that far.” He drags a hand down his face, shame raw in the gesture. “She was my fighter, and I let her walk straight into Serrano’s hands. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself.”
I study him, Serrano’s words echoing in my head. My throat tightens. “He called you son. Said you betrayed him.”
His gaze cuts sharp to mine. “He took me in, but I was never his son. I was just another weapon. Victor Serrano took my brother from me, so I took his. As hard as I fought against it, I ended up exactly like him.”
“You’re not Serrano,” I say quietly. “I saw you down there. You’re nothing like him.”
His eyes search mine, like he’s testing whether I mean it. The silence stretches until he clears his throat.
“You’re bleeding through,” he says, his voice still rough. “I should get somebody to change it.”
My throat tightens. “You can do it.”
He exhales, sharp, and pulls the supply kit from the nightstand. His hands are steady opening the packet, but whenhis fingers graze my skin, sliding the hem of my shirt up, they tremble for the briefest second.
I flinch, not from the pressure but from him. From the heat crawling up my spine as his knuckles brush beneath the edge of my sports bra.
Our eyes lock. Something cracks wide open between us. The air charges like the space we’ve been circling for weeks finally collapses.
His breath ghosts across my face as he presses fresh gauze in place, slow and careful.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he mutters, low and dark.
“I can’t help it.” My voice is raw, softer than I mean it to be.
A muscle ticks in his cheek. For the first time, Dante looks less like the fighter who never bends and more like a man barely holding himself together.
His hand lingers at my ribs. My chest rises into his palm. Neither of us move.
I should push him away. But I don’t. My breath hitches instead, and his eyes darken. His thumb drags a light path along my side, enough to blur the line between tending a wound and touching me.
The room is quiet except for my heartbeat hammering. His gaze holds mine, hot and searching, and I know he feels it too. That pull neither of us can ignore.
His thumb shifts again, slow, almost unconscious, dragging a bare stroke across my side. The touch sears hotter than the wound. His breath catches, rough, unsteady, and for the first time I see him falter. Not the fighter, not the man with walls higher than mine, just Dante, trembling because of me.
I should move away. Shove the feeling down where it belongs. Instead, I lean into his hand, testing him, testing myself.
The silence thickens, unbearable, every second stretched taut. His gaze locks on mine shattering my restraint.
“Dante…” his name slips out broken, more plea than question. I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Comfort, his touch, or something deeper I can’t name. All I know is that I need it from him.
He exhales slowly, steadying himself. His thumb stills against my ribs, heat searing through the bandage. His eyes don’t leave mine, like he’s digging for something I’m not sure I want him to find.
“Do you regret it?” His voice is low, almost broken. “Trusting me?”
He’s not asking about fighting side by side, he’s asking if I regret letting him this close.
I should. Every reason says I should. But all I see is the way he looked at me in that basement like losing me would’ve gutted him.
My breath catches. “No.”
His shoulders loosen, like the word strikes deeper than any blade. I push through the sting in my ribs, forcing myself upright. “I don’t regret it, Dante. Not for a second.”
