"I shouldn't have left you outside," he says finally.
I frown. That was not what I was expecting to hear. "What?"
"This afternoon. I left you and Mila in the garden without adequate protection." His jaw tightens. "That was a mistake. If the alarm had been real?—"
"But it wasn't."
"But it could have been." He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm supposed to keep you safe, and I failed."
"We're both fine," I tell him. “Not a hair on either of our heads was harmed.”
"This time."
The unspoken implication hangs heavy in the air. Next time, we might not be so lucky.
I should be angry at him for putting us in danger, for keeping me in a world where panic rooms and armed guards are necessaryprecautions. Instead, I find myself crossing the room to where he stands, reaching for his hand.
He takes it without hesitation. The contact grounds me, reminds me that I'm not alone in this strange space between captivity and something more complicated.
We sink onto the edge of my bed, sitting in silence, the distance between our bodies minimal but the distance between what we're thinking and what we're saying vast as an ocean.
I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what I should feel for him. My heart and brain are at war. Logic and emotion fighting for dominance. I’m a practical woman. I know this is wrong, but it feels so damn right.
"Katya died because I wasn't careful enough," he says suddenly. "I knew there were threats, knew people wanted me dead. But I thought I could control it. Thought I could keep my family separate from the violence."
I squeeze his hand, saying nothing, just letting him talk.
"She was driving my car. Taking Mila to ballet class. I'd gotten a flat tire that morning, so she offered to take mine while I dealt with it. The bomb was meant for me. Professional job, designed to detonate when the engine reached a certain temperature."
"Dante—"
"She didn't die instantly." His voice is flat now, emotionless in that way that means he's feeling too much. "Lived long enough to make sure someone called about Mila. She managed to tell the first responders that her daughter was at dance class. Then she died in the ambulance, alone, because I was too late."
The pain in his words is visceral, raw. I can picture it too clearly—Dante racing to the hospital, desperate to reach her, arriving just moments too late to say goodbye.
"That's not your fault," I say quietly.
"Isn't it?" He finally looks at me. The anguish in his eyes steals my breath. "Everything I touch, everyone I care about becomes a target. My enemies don't come for me directly—they go after the people I love, because that's how you destroy a man like me. Killing me is too easy. It’s not enough damage. I have to suffer for them to win."
"Is that why you're so protective of Mila?"
"It's why I'm protective of everyone who matters to me." His gaze intensifies. "Including you."
The words surprised me. Including me.Imatter to him. Despite everything, despite the circumstances that brought me here, despite the lies and half-truths between us—I matter.
"It's dangerous letting anyone in. Every person I care about becomes a potential casualty in a war they never signed up for."
I laugh, though there's no humor in it. "I think it's a little late to worry about that."
"Is it?"
"You're holding my hand. You just told me I matter to you. You look at me like—" I stop myself before I say too much.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm not your prisoner."
"You're not," he says quietly. "You haven't been for a while now."
