He presses the helmet into my hands. The weight of it surprises me. Solid. Real. Like everything about this moment.
I stare down at the glossy black surface, my reflection warped in the curve of it. The woman looking back at me doesn't look like someone who rides motorcycles. She looks like someone who takes the bus and checks her locks twice and sleeps with the lights on.
But that woman also fell in love with a man who kills people for a living.
Maybe I don't know who I am anymore.
I let out a long breath. "The moment I say stop, you stop. Okay?"
"Always."
He takes the helmet from my hands and lifts it over my head. His fingers brush my jaw as he adjusts the strap, gentle despite the calluses on his palms. The same hands that held a gun yesterday. The same hands that held me in the shower while he cried.
"Too tight?" he asks.
I shake my head. The helmet feels strange. Enclosed. But not suffocating.
Dante picks up a second helmet and pulls it on. The visor is up, and I can still see his face. Those dark eyes watching me like I'm the only thing in the world worth looking at.
He swings his leg over the bike with an ease that comes from years of practice. The machine dips slightly under his weight, then settles. He reaches back and taps the seat behind him.
I don't move.
"Marina."
"I'm thinking."
"You're stalling."
"Same thing."
He taps the seat again. Patient. Waiting.
I take a breath and approach the bike. Getting on is awkward. I have to hike up my dress and swing my leg over, nearly losing my balance in the process. But then I'm seated behind him, my thighs pressed against his hips, my hands hovering uselessly at my sides.
"Hold on to me," Dante says over his shoulder.
I wrap my arms around his waist. Through his shirt, I can feel the warmth of his body. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The hard muscle beneath my palms.
"I was thinking," he says, "we could go to a roller coaster."
I blink. "What?"
"There's a park about forty minutes from here. They have a wooden coaster. Old school. The kind that feels like it might fall apart at any second."
A roller coaster. After everything that's happened.
"I love roller coasters," I hear myself say.
Dante turns his head slightly. I can't see his expression behind the helmet, but I can hear the smile in his voice. "I know."
Of course he knows.
The engine roars to life beneath us. The vibration travels up through my legs, my spine, settling somewhere in my chest. Dante's hand covers mine where they rest against his stomach. A brief squeeze. Then he's gripping the handlebars and we're moving.
The compound gates open ahead of us. The guards wave us through without stopping us.
And then we're on the road.
