Chapter 11
Dante
Her breathing has finally evened out.
That soft, delicate rhythm, slow and laced with an exhaustion so profound it feels ancient, tells me she’s asleep. I listen to it like it’s the only sound in the world worth hearing. Because it is.
But I knew what came before. I heard her.
Once Mattia was asleep, I returned to our room.
I lay beside her, not touching, just close enough to feel the way her body shook.
She tried to silence it.
She fought like hell to keep it buried.
But I heard everything.
The stifled gasps. The fractured exhales. The way the mattress trembled under the weight of what she wouldn’t let herself release.
And it fucking gutted me.
Because no matter how hard she tried, I heard every crumbled piece of her.
And I did nothing.
Everything in me roared to act, to reach for her, to fix it, to obliterate whatever shattered her, but I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
The moment I tried to touch her, she recoiled, folding in on herself, pretending to sleep as though the act might shield her from me.
She didn’t want my hand.
She didn’t want my voice. That much was clear. As if the very idea of me witnessing her like this, destroyed, raw, was a weakness she’d rather bury.
So I lie here, motionless.
Silent.
Watching my woman slowly come undone, unable to touch her, unable to steady her, unable to destroy the man who did this.
Not yet.
But soon.
His reckoning is inevitable.
My chest feels like it’s being hollowed out. Lethargic. Cruel. There’s a tightness there that doesn’t go away. Not when I breathe. Not when I close my eyes. Not even when I imagine that bastard’s body at my feet.
Because nothing fixes this.
Nothing brings her back, not the way she was before.
I turn on my side, facing Harlow. The only part I can see clearly in the faint spill of light is the gentle rise and fall of the blanket where her back is. Her spine, curled inward. Trying to disappear.
She fell asleep facing the window again. As if she’s trying to escape into the night sky. Like she’s begging the stars to pull her out of this reality.
I reach out, slow, so fucking slow it hurts my own muscles, and touch her hand. Just with the tips of my fingers. A brief, weightless thing. I don’t want to wake her. I don’t want to startle her.
She used to sleep curled against me like it was the only place she belonged. Now even a whisper of contact feels like breaking glass.
Still… I need to touch her. Even if it’s just this. Even if it amounts to nothing at all.
My fingers brush her skin once.
Then I let go.
Eventually, I close my eyes and allow sleep to come.
***
It feels like only minutes have passed, perhaps even less, when suddenly a scream tears through the room.
My eyes snap open, and I lurch upright, every muscle locking into place as if instinct alone has taken over. “Harlow.”
She’s thrashing beside me, caught in the grip of something far worse than a nightmare. Her body jerks violently, first to the side, then forward, her arms tangled in the sheets as if she’s trying to fight her way out of them. Her breathing is harsh, broken by sobs, and her head snaps from side to side in blind panic.
Her eyes are open, but she isn’t here. She’s somewhere else entirely, lost in whatever hell her mind has dragged her back to.
And it’s just like last time.
She’s trapped there again. Her mouth parts, and a faint sound escapes.
“No...”
The word is brittle, unsteady, her voice rough and unfamiliar, as though it hasn’t been used in weeks.
I move immediately, afraid she’ll worsen the damage to her already fractured ribs. She should be in agony, but looking at her, I know she doesn’t feel it. She’s in a different kind of pain—the kind that kills faster than any broken bone ever could.
I don’t touch her. I don’t shake her. I know better.
I’ve read every goddamn article, every trauma study, every desperate forum post written by someone who’s watched the person they love disappear inside their own fucking mind.
Night terrors.
You don’t yank them out of it. You don’t scream their name or slap their face. You guide them back. You anchor them, steady, like defusing a live fucking bomb.
So I start to speak.
My voice is low. Calm. Even as my own heart is about to implode.
“Leonessa.”
I say it again.
And again.
I get closer, kneeling beside her on the bed, my hands just barely hovering.
“I’m here. You are not alone anymore. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She cries out again, twisting her body away from something I can’t see, and I swear to God I want to tear the world apart. I want to dig my hands into the earth and rip him out, drag Piero by the throat and make him pay in ways that don’t have names.
But right now, she needs me calm.
“Breathe, Harlow. Come back to me. I’m not leaving you.”
Her body jerks again, then starts to slow.
Her eyes still don’t see me. Not yet. But her breathing begins to shift. Her fists unclench. She lets out a hoarse sound, almost a sob, and I inch forward just enough to whisper the words.
“It’s over. He’s gone. You’re not there anymore. You’re safe, love. You’re safe with me.”
I see the moment her gaze begins to clear, her eyes starting to find mine. Locking on. For the briefest second, her lips part like she might speak. Or cry. Or fall apart completely.
I reach out now, wanting to touch her face, to feel the skin under my hand and whisper that I’ve got her. That she’s not alone.
But she jerks away from me. Like I’m made of fire.
And my heart doesn’t break.
No.
Break is too gentle a word.
It detonates. Implodes. Rips through my chest and leaves something worse than ruin behind. I sit there, motionless, my hand frozen mid-air, watching her bolt upright in bed, dragging the covers around like armour.
Her breathing spikes again, frantic and shallow. Her eyes go wide, wild.
She doesn’t speak.
I don’t move.
I just stare.
I fucked it up. Again. It was too soon to reach for her, too fucking soon to touch. She’d barely clawed her way back from that basement, barely found me for a second, and I, arrogant bastard that I am, thought I could touch her.
Inside me, something howls. Something primal. Vicious.
But on the outside, I remain silent.
Because for her, I have to be gentle.
Even when every part of me is screaming.
I don’t know how long we sit like that, quiet, side by side, but sleep never comes. Not after a night like this. Not after watching my wife shatter in front of me, piece by piece, yet again.
And judging by the way her gaze stays fixed on nothing, it escapes her too.
I don’t know if keeping her confined in this room helps or hurts. I only know it’s starting to feel like a cage. Maybe a change of scenery, just for a moment, might let a sliver of light in. A breath of air. A sense of something beyond these four fucking walls.
“I want to show you something,”
I say quietly, careful not to jolt her.
“Only if you’re up for it.”
She doesn’t respond at first. For a moment, I think she might go on pretending I’m not even here. But then, gradually, almost imperceptibly, she turns her gaze from the window and looks at me.
Just a glance. Subtle. Tentative. But it strikes me like salvation. And then, with a quiet motion, she inclines her head. That small gesture, so quiet, so full of effort, feels like a miracle.
I rise from the bed and move around to her side. I reach for her, then stop myself.
Instead, I ask quietly.
“Can I touch you?”
She doesn’t answer right away. But then, slowly, she nods.
“I’ll carry you,”
I murmur, my eyes locked on hers.
“I can see you are in pain.”
And I do see it. Every inch of it. And fuck, it hurts me too.
So I gather her into my arms, as carefully as I’ve ever done anything in my life. She flinches the moment I lift her, breath hitching from the pain. I move slowly, agonizingly slow, doing everything I can to keep from hurting her any more than she already is.
I step out of the room with my wife in my arms. The house is silent. It’s deep in the night, only the low hum of the security systems and the distant echo of guards’ boots against pavement. The air is still, but alert. Watchful. We move through the long hallway, down the corridor that leads to the library. The lights are dim when we enter, warm, muted, casting soft shadows across the shelves and marble floor.
And there it is. Waiting.
The piano.
A grand black Steinway, polished to a mirror. The surface gleams beneath the low lighting, its curves elegant, commanding. It’s a presence. Heavy with memory.
I glance down at my wife. Her face is still marked with bruises, swollen in places that make my grip tighten instinctively, but I force myself to ease it.
Her eyes, still distant, lift to the piano. There’s a question in them, faint but real. And somehow, that feels like a victory. The fact that she feels anything at all.
The piano wasn’t here before. I had it brought in the day I got Harlow back. But I still haven’t touched it. Haven’t even looked at it. Seeing it now makes my fists clench. A surge of emotion rushes through me, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Because before Harlow, I walked through life numb. Detached. Nothing cut deep enough to matter. But now—now I feel everything. Too fucking much.
And the most terrifying part?
I don’t regret a goddamn thing.
Harlow became my entire fucking world. And I’m man enough to admit it. She’s my queen. The pulse in my veins. The breath in my lungs. The only thing that reminds me I’m still alive.
I haven’t played since my brother died. Couldn’t even look at the piano. I got rid of it, buried it like the rest of that life. Even now, after so long, the sight of it cuts straight through me. Not because of what it is, but because of what it was. What it meant.
But I would do anything.
Anything to bring my wife back.
In all my research, and there’s been more than I care to admit, I found that music, especially the piano, has ties to trauma recovery. So I’ll try it.
Even if it splits me open.
I step farther into the room and lower Harlow gently into the armchair across from the piano. I take the soft blanket from the basket and wrap it around her shoulders.
It’s the middle of summer. The heat outside is relentless, we run the air conditioning nonstop. Still, she always reaches for a blanket. Always wants to be covered. Maybe it’s just a reflex now. Or maybe she’s still carrying the cold from that fucking basement, where she sat for days on stone, silent and unseen.
My teeth grind so hard I feel something shift in my jaw. I draw in a measured breath, steadying the storm beneath my ribs, then cross the room and lower myself onto the piano bench.
The keys are cool beneath my fingers, familiar.
I glance at my wife. She’s watching me. Her expression is inscrutable, distant. But her eyes are on me, and that’s more than I’ve had in days. So I give her what I can.
I begin to play. The first notes emerge soft. The melody stirs from memory, fragile but intact. Sonata quasi una fantasia drifts through the library, filling the silence with something close to life.
My fingers move on their own, the music flowing out of a part of me I buried a long time ago. I feel the ache in every note. Every chord is a wound. Every measure is a memory I swore I’d never touch again.
If I can’t hold her the way I want to, then I’ll play for her. If she won’t speak, I’ll let the music speak in her place. And if she won’t let me near her soul, maybe this will reach it in ways words never could.
For a moment, the weight in my chest lifts. The violence, the blood, the hunger for retribution, all of it fades. There is only the music.
And when the final note fades into the quiet, I turn to her.
I see a flicker in her eyes. Barely there, but unmistakable. A glint, quick and fragile, like a spark trying to survive a gust of wind.
It vanishes almost immediately.
But it existed.
And that means there’s hope. I hold onto it like it’s the only thing keeping my lungs moving.
“Would you like to go for a walk?”
I ask quietly.
“Or would you prefer to lie down?”
She shakes her head at the latter. No to rest, even though her body clearly needs it.
I approach her slowly, then lower myself and gather her into my arms, lifting her with ease. I carry her bridal style out of the library and into the hall, moving through the house at an unhurried pace.
I like the way she feels against me. This is where she belongs, close, held, safe. And if she’ll allow it, I’ll carry us through every season of our lives. And if she resists, I’ll still do it. I’ve never been a man who gives up easily. I’m persistent by nature. I take what’s mine.
We step out into the warm summer night. The heat clings to the skin, but the air is fresh and clean.
The guards are in position, three stationed at the far end of the terrace, another pacing along the garden wall. Their movements are quiet. Harlow watches them closely, her gaze sharp beneath the softness. Alert. Guarded.
I settle into one of the terrace armchairs, keeping her in my arms. I’m not ready to let go, not now that I have her this close. She doesn’t resist, and I exhale slowly, the tension in my chest easing by degrees.
I don’t speak.
She doesn’t need words.
She needs stillness. Safety. Peace.
The sea breeze drifts in over the estate, brushing against us with salt and memory. In the moonlight, her face looks ghostly pale, her eyes empty. Just absent, like something vital has slipped out of reach.
We sit in silence.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. I lose track.
Eventually, when I catch the drowsiness softening her gaze, I rise with her still in my arms.
“Let’s get you to bed,”
I murmur.
“You need a bit more rest.”
She doesn’t object.
Back in the bedroom, I lower her gently onto the mattress. When she reaches toward the nightstand, I’m already there, handing her one of the pills with a glass of water.
“I should’ve brought you in sooner,”
I growl.
“Now your side’s hurting more.”
The frustration in my tone is sharp, aimed squarely at myself.
I circle the bed and lie down beside her, pulling the blanket up over both of us. It doesn’t take long before her breathing slows and she’s asleep.
I find myself counting each breath, just as I’ve done every night since she came back. Sleep doesn’t come for me. So I stay there in the silence, watching over my wife as it’s the only thing that matters.