My face heats and tightens, my heartbeat slams against the inside of my throat, and consciousness thins at the edges like wet paper tearing apart. Primal fear surges through me, hitting with brutal clarity as the truth lands.
I will not see Dante again.
He made me feel something new, something sharp and exhilarating, something that refused to bore me. Something thatlit a spark I thought had died a long time ago. And we never even had the chance to let it grow. Now I am about to die, and whatever chance I had to turn my life into something different is slipping beyond reach, dissolving into the void that pulls at me.
His face floods my mind, memories racing in a rapid-fire blur. Now I can feel what people mean when they say their life flashes before their eyes in their final moments. But instead of my entire miserable existence, all I see is Dante. The moments with him surge forward, vivid and overwhelming. I hear his voice, feel the warmth of his skin, and even catch the trace of his scent. That scent swells, rising above everything else, thick and real, so potent I can almost taste it.
Then, a sensation strikes me like a sudden breach from underwater, as if someone yanks me toward the surface and lets me take in a clean, desperate breath. My palms crash against the floor as I brace myself, a raw cough scraping out of my throat, the burning ache still clinging to my skin. The weight crushing me disappears, torn away by something stronger, and cold air rushes to fill the space he held, wrapping around me like a stark, icy embrace.
The man groans, followed by a heavy thud, then a scuffle. I turn my head, squinting through the dark, trying to make sense of the shapes and movement, but the shadows swallow everything. A sharp crack slices through the air, unmistakably the sound of bone giving way, and the metallic bite of blood follows, faint yet undeniable.
Still coughing and dragging in ragged breaths, I crawl toward the light switch, the one that always felt close, yet now seems impossibly distant. Behind me, the dull impact of fists striking flesh echoes through the room, each hit packing a violent finality, each sound stripping the life from the body that attacked me.
Finally, my fingers hit the goddamn switch. Light floods the room, and I whip my head back toward the scene. My eyes widen, stretching like giant saucers, as I take in Dante looming over the man whose face I won’t even recognize, shredded into a bloody mess. Each punch sends a spray of red across the air, painting the man’s face over and over again as Dante drives his fists relentlessly.
I can’t see his eyes clearly, but I feel it—the blaze behind them, the raw energy radiating outward. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t pause; every ounce of his attention is fixed on the man beneath him and the rhythm of his fists. His hands move so fast they blur, each strike fueled by something beyond reason. Strands of hair fall across his forehead, crawling into his eyes like delicate, stubborn spiders, but he’s completely oblivious.
The room hums with taut tension, stretching to the breaking point, while the metallic scent of blood mingles with sweat and the unmistakable, intoxicating trace of Dante. My eyes lock on him, unable to look away, drawn in as the beast inside him fully awakens.
The man’s body twists and shudders under the assault, but Dante isn’t convinced. He only sees red. He doesn’t stop, even when blood flakes into his own eyes, even when he can no longer see anything at all.
My tongue darts out, wetting my lips as the last remnants of panic evaporate, leaving only a thick, simmering warmth pooling low in my stomach. I cannot tear my gaze from him, fascinated by the raw, untamed ferocity he exudes. That man may have seemed strong before, but he is nothing compared to Dante.
Veins pulse along his arms, blue threads mapping intricate patterns over tanned skin. Light catches a bead of sweat on his temple, and I feel a rush, a strange, uncontainable desire to leanin and taste it. My bottom lip is trapped between my teeth while a small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
He is a wild storm, raging without restraint, obliterating the man who dared to attack me. He came at the perfect moment, like a fierce, unstoppable force, and in that instant, I understand something undeniable.
He’s mine to witness, and no one, nothing, will come between him and me.
Still sprawled on the floor, I shift my weight, and a subtle slickness gathers between my legs. The sensation startles me, but not as much as the realization that Dante notices it—the change in my breathing, the shift in my body, the silent turn in my thoughts. His fists finally fall still, and he lifts his head.
Our eyes collide, and a sharp gasp cuts up my throat.
It feels like I’ve just witnessed something forbidden, something no one was ever meant to see. A part of him he’s kept buried so deep the world had no clue it existed. If someone had reminded me of the awkward, unsure Dante from before, I would have sworn he wasn’t capable of this. But now, after seeing it with my own eyes…
He was completely swallowed by rage. Not resisting it—embracingit. He let the darkness inside him rise, let it claim him, let it tear through him.
And yet, when he looks at me, something in his expression softens—just barely, just enough to let me see the man beneath the fury. But the gleam in his eyes remains, bright and sharp, a flicker of danger he can’t hide.
For a moment, it feels like I’m staring directly into myself—the reflection of all my broken edges, all my wounds left wide open to the cold of this world.
Slowly, his gaze drifts to my arm. Concern sweeps across his features, smoothing out the last remnants of murderous rage. He glances down at himself, mutters a dark curse, then drags hishand over the dead man’s shirt in a lazy attempt to wipe off the blood. In the next instant, he’s on his feet and rushing toward me.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, dropping to his knees in front of me. His fingers brush my arm, warm and steady, sending a ripple of heat through my body. My muscles loosen, my eyelids flutter closed for a heartbeat. “Come on, we need to get you up.”
His arms slide around my waist, lifting me with a gentleness that contradicts everything he just did. He guides me across the room, easing me onto the couch as though I might shatter.
My gaze drifts to the motionless body lying only a few feet away. The corners of my mouth twitch, trembling their way into the faintest, most fragile smile that manages to break through.
A hand comes to the top of my head, and it pulls my attention away from the ruined body on the floor. I look up and find Dante standing over me, his fingers slipping gently into my hair. Only now do I register the state of it—tangled, wild, the strands twisted from that bastard’s grip.
Dante eases his fingers through the knots with slow, careful strokes, guiding each lock back into place. I stare up at him, stunned into silence, every thought in my skull dissolving like mist.
His other hand rises to my cheek, cupping it with a tenderness that knocks the breath out of me. His thumb grazes across my skin in a slow sweep, warmth unfurling beneath his touch, delicate and impossible—like a whispered secret brushing across the stillness of night.
His touch is featherlight, and I feel myself melting beneath it, softening, losing any sense of where my edges once were. The contrast is jarring, almost surreal—the same hands that just took a man’s life now move over me as though I’m something precious, something fragile, something he refuses to let slip.
The room fades behind him. Everything dulls except the way he looks at me—as if every part of him is reaching, claiming, and unraveling. It feels like he’s pulling the soul straight out of my body with nothing but his stare and the slide of his thumb.
