He lies against the pillows, one shoulder and half his chest wrapped in thick white bandages that already show the faintest shadow of seepage at the edges.Tubing snakes from the IV pole into the back of his hand, and a clear oxygen line rests beneath his nose.
The gray pallor beneath his olive skin makes my stomach knot all over again.
This is Dante Moretti—my husband, the man who fills every room with command and heat—and right now he looks impossibly still.Vulnerable in a way that twists something deep inside me I didn’t know I possessed.
I cross the cool tile floor.
The chair beside his bed is unyielding, but I sink into it anyway, elbows on my knees, hands clasped so tightly my knuckles ache.
For a long time I simply watch the rise and fall of his chest, each breath a small victory I count like rosary beads.
I close my eyes and the scent of gunpowder and copper floods back so strongly I have to swallow hard.
Then, deliberately, I bring myself back to the present.Dante needs me here, with him.By his side.
For a second, I let my fingers hover above his hand.Then I force myself to allow them to settle.
His skin is warm, thank God, warmer than I expected after the blood loss and the surgery.With relief, I exhale.
Then I slide my palm beneath his, lacing our fingers together carefully so I don’t tug the IV line.The simple contact sends a tremor through me, relief so sharp it borders on pain.
“You scared me,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.They feel too small for everything that happened tonight, too fragile for the weight of what I almost lost.
His fingers twitch against mine.
The movement is faint, barely there, but it jolts straight through my chest.I tighten my hold instinctively, anchoring him.
His brow furrows, a tiny crease forming between his dark brows as he fights whatever fog the anesthesia left behind.
Long moments later, his eyelashes lift, slow and heavy, and those rich brown eyes find me.Recognition sharpens them instantly, the haze clearing like mist burned off by morning sun.
“Valentina.”His voice is rough, scraped raw from the tube they removed only an hour ago, but it is still his—low, steady, threaded with that quiet authority that has always made my pulse jump.
The sound of my name on his lips breaks something open inside me.
“You stayed.”
As if I’d do anything else.
Tears I didn’t realize I was holding back spill over, hot and silent, tracking down my cheeks.I don’t wipe them away.“I thought I lost you,” I manage, my throat closing around every syllable.
His mouth curves, the faintest ghost of that dangerous half-smile he gives me when he knows he’s won.“Not a chance.”
The words cost him; I see the tiny flinch as the movement pulls at his stitches, but he doesn’t look away from me.
I shake my head, the motion making more tears fall onto our joined hands.“You idiot.”The accusation comes out soft, almost tender.“You threw yourself over me.”
His fingers tighten around mine with surprising strength for a man who just came out of surgery.“Of course I did.”He draws a careful breath, the machine beside him registering the small effort.“Better that than me trying to live without you.”
The confession lands between us like a vow spoken in church.
“Oh, Dante.”I press my forehead to the back of his hand, feeling the faint pulse beneath his skin, letting the warmth of him seep into me.
“I love you, Valentina Moretti.”
The room fades—the beeps, the sterile smell, the distant murmur of nurses in the hallway—until there are only the two of us.The two of us and the truth I have come to accept.
“And I love you.”The words leave me on a shaky exhale, but once they are out they feel right, inevitable.“God help me, Dante, I love you.Not because you forced the marriage, not because of the alliance or the ring or any of the reasons we started this.I love you because you are stubborn and protective and you make me feel alive even when the world is trying to kill us both.”
