Lark stared at him. "What?"
"He took her three years ago,” Dante said. He swallowed hard. "I do what he says because if I don't—” He couldn't seem to finish what he was saying, but he didn’t need to. Lark understood what he wasn’t saying out loud. And now, she understood the misery she saw in his eyes every time he locked her in her room. He wasn't her jailer—he was another prisoner.
"Oh my God,” she whispered.
"I've looked for her,” he insisted. His voice cracked. "I've tried to save her, but I don’t know where she is.”
"I believe you,” she assured.
Those three words nearly shattered him. "You believe me?" he asked.
She nodded. "I see it in your eyes when you have to lock me in my room."
His laugh was hollow. "My eyes?"
"They're sad,” she admitted.
He looked away. "I hate doing that to you," he said. Before she realized what she was doing, Lark stepped closer. She stoodclose enough to touch him—close enough to smell cedar and rain clinging to his suit.
"You've been protecting me,” she whispered.
He shook his head. "I've been failing you."
"No,” she breathed. She reached up slowly, letting her fingertips brush the angry bruise across his knuckles. "You've been protecting me in every way you can,” she insisted.
His breathing changed. "You shouldn't touch me."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because if you do—” His voice was rough, making her want to touch him more. "I won't stop myself."
Her pulse raced. "Dante." He lifted a trembling hand, and instead of touching her face, he tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. His fingers barely grazed her skin, but the gentle gesture hurt more than any kiss could have.
"I've imagined doing that for months,” he admitted.
Her breath caught. "You have?"
He nodded. "Every day." The confession hung between them, raw and dangerous. Lark rose onto her toes without thinking—just enough to close the distance between them, allowing their breaths to mingle, and his gaze dropped to her lips. "Tell me to stop," he whispered. She couldn't. She wanted to, and she should have, but she couldn’t. Instead, a throat cleared behind them, and they sprang apart.
Marco stood twenty feet down the hallway, staring openly between them. “Marco,” Dante said.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Marco’s face. "Well.” His eyes settled on Dante. "Now I know why you've been acting so strange." Dante's face drained of color, and Lark's heart dropped into her stomach because Marco wasn't just another guard. Marco was loyal to Rafael Santos, and if he told her father what he'd just seen, everything was about to explode.
The hallway went deathly silent as Lark's heart slammed against her ribs at Marco's amused grin. He leaned casually against the wall, coffee cup dangling from one hand as though he hadn't just walked in on the most dangerous moment of her life.
"Didn't mean to interrupt," he drawled. Dante moved in front of her so subtly that most people would've missed it, but she didn't. His broad shoulders blocked Marco's direct view of her, instinctively shielding her.
"You need something?" Dante asked, his voice flat.
Marco chuckled. "Boss is looking for you."
Dante didn't blink. "I'll be there in a minute."
Marco's gaze shifted past him to Lark. "Everything okay, Princess?"
Lark forced herself to smile. "I've had better evenings."
"I imagine,” Marco said. His eyes lingered on her reddened cheek where Rafael had struck her, and she noticed something flicker across his face. For a second, she thought it might be sympathy, but that couldn’t be.
