Chapter 52
FIFTY-TWO
DANTE’S SUITE
The ICU wing had quieted. The buzz of machines and the soft shuffle of nurses' shoes faded to a background hum. Outside Dante’s room, the lights were dimmed. Inside, it was just them.
Shannon sat curled up in the corner lounge chair with her knees drawn toward her chest and her hoodie sleeves pulled past her wrists. Her hair was damp from a recent shower. Her eyes were shadowed with fatigue, but she hadn’t left. Not once.
Dante lay half reclined and shirtless on the adjustable bed, no longer tethered to anything that beeped or bled.
The central line in his neck was gone. The arterial shunt from his wrist—gone.
The Foley catheter was removed five days ago.
The peritoneal site in his abdomen had healed well enough to start his new routine two nights earlier. It was his new life.
He could breathe again. Sit up. Swallow food without wincing. And he could see her now—really see her—not as his caregiver or a soldier or a sentinel. But as his.
He turned toward her, watching until she noticed. “I remember waking up in the plane.”
Shannon sat up straighter, the blanket falling from her lap.
“Your voice was the first thing I registered,” he said. “I thought I heard Roe’s British accent too.”
She blinked and swallowed once. “You scared me. I thought I was going to lose you on that flight. We were getting you to Ramstein. Ford and Chase performed a miracle and got the air corridors cleared.”
He gave a small shake of his head. “I wasn’t afraid of dying.”
Her brow furrowed.
“I was afraid you would see me like that,” he said. “Broken.”
Her voice was soft but firm. “You weren’t broken. You were tortured.”
“Which is worse,” he whispered. “You didn’t see what he did. What I looked like when they dragged me out. I didn’t want that image in your head.”
She swallowed hard. “Dante?”
He looked at her.
“By the time I landed in the evacuation zone, three men in fatigues were….they were fighting to keep a contractor alive. I flew him to the field hospital.” Shannon got up slowly and crossed to him, barefoot and quiet.
She sat on the edge of the bed, resting her hand gently on his.
“I landed—then found out it was you. And the only thing I saw was you fighting. Trying to hold on. That’s strength, Dante. Not weakness.”
He looked away for a long time. “I’m still not who I was.”
She touched his jaw. “You’re more.”
He looked up then, raw emotion in his eyes. No armor left. Just truth. “I love you.”
She smiled—not the big kind. The quiet, aching kind. “I love you too.”
She leaned forward and kissed him—slowly, carefully. His hand came up to her cheek, tentative at first. Then firmer.
When they broke apart, he whispered, “I want to feel you.”
Her breath caught.
“I don’t know if I can—” He hesitated. “I haven’t—since I can remember. What if I can’t—”
Shannon didn’t flinch. “Then we take it slow. There’s no rush. This isn’t about performance.”
He watched her. Vulnerable. Hopeful. Starving for connection but terrified he wouldn’t be enough.
She stood, clicked the privacy shield on, and dimmed the light further. He heard the latch on the door click. Then she climbed into the bed beside him—carefully, gently—curling against his side.
He moved stiffly, slowly, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Their kiss deepened. Skin to skin, breath to breath.
She brushed the ridge of the healing catheter on his abdomen and didn’t flinch. He felt the scar tissue near her hip and didn’t pull away.
It was just the two of them—alive, human, whole.
He reached for her hand. She threaded her fingers through his.
Dante swallowed hard and lowered his forehead to hers, his arms drifting around her waist. His breath shook against her skin. She slid her hands to his shoulders.
“Talk to me,” she whispered. “You don’t have to be tense with me. There is nothing to prove.”
“I want you,” he said quietly, his voice raw. “I want… us. Every moment in that villa, it was the thought of you that kept me from going under.” He lifted his head and looked at her, not hungry or impatient—vulnerable. “But…”
She asked gently, “What is it, my love?”
He shut his eyes. “What if my body doesn’t cooperate? What if I can’t… finish what I start? What if I can’t even get started?” His jaw flexed. “Krueger broke me, Shannon. I keep thinking I’m fine until something reminds me I’m not. He took everything. My control, my strength, my… my goddamn self.”
“Dante…” She climbed onto his thighs, straddling him carefully to avoid his healing injuries. She settled her weight against him, a warm, grounding pressure. “Do you really think sex is the measure of whether you’re whole? That your performance is what I need?”
His hands gripped her thighs, trembling. “No. But I want to give you more than broken pieces. I want to give you all of me, the way I was. The way you deserve.”
“Let me decide what I want.” Her forehead pressed to his. “And right now, all I want is you, however you are. Whatever you can give. This isn’t a test, Dante. It’s a reunion.”
He opened his eyes, filled with fear.
She kissed him. Slowly. Deeply. Without hesitation or rush. Her lips were a promise. They were a soft landing. His fingers dug into her hips, desperate but careful, pulling her closer until not a sliver of air remained between them.
The heat between them rose quickly, breath mixing as their kisses grew hungry and intense. Her hands moved across his warm chest. He groaned, low and rough, when her lips trailed down his jaw, her teeth scraping lightly over his pulse point.
But then, his breath hitched. His body tensed, not with pleasure but with fear. He froze beneath her, the memory of evil eyes, cold hands and rough bindings flooding his senses.
“Dante?” She pulled back just enough to see his face.
His throat worked. “I can’t… something isn’t… It’s not happening the way it should. I’m sorry.” His shoulders hunched like a man bracing for impact. “Shannon, I’m trying. God, I’m trying so hard.”
She cupped his jaw firmly and brought his gaze to hers. “I don’t need perfection. I need you breathing. I need you here with me, in this room, on this bed. Not back there. Never back there.”
He let out a shaky breath. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You couldn’t,” she said softly. “Even if you tried.”
He stared at her for a long, unsteady moment.
Then she kissed him again slowly. She guided his hands to her waist, to her back, to the small curve of her spine.
He felt her wanting him, not out of pity, but out of love so deep, it made his chest ache.
She took his hand in hers and slid it beneath her own shirt, pressing his palm flat against the frantic beat of her heart.
“Feel that?” she whispered. “That’s for you. Only ever for you.”
The fear in his muscles softened beneath her touch. His breaths lengthened, and his hands steadied as her lips brushed his ear. “You’re not failing. You’re healing. Let your body come with you when it’s ready. We have all night. We have the rest of our lives.”
He exhaled hard and rested his forehead on her shoulder. “Shannon.”
She tilted his face up. “Look at me.”
His eyes were dark with want, fear, and something new: hope. They moved slowly—uncertain at first, rediscovering rhythms.
She kissed him again…and this time when it became clear that, yes, he could, and yes, he wanted to, and, yes, she wanted him to—they let the rest fall away.
There were no machines. No ghosts. No pain that mattered.
The tension melted into hunger, into intention.
His body caught up slowly, then with increasing confidence, the connection between them shifted, deepened, thickened with heat and trust. His hands slid up her back, surer now, guiding her closer.
He peeled her shirt over her head, his gaze reverent as it roamed over her skin.
“Are you sure?” he whispered against her mouth, his voice thick with emotion.
“Very sure.”
He kissed her like a man starving and finally allowed to feed. His body, cautious at first, rose to the moment. His heat, his strength returned in subtle pulses beneath her palms. His breath grew rougher, his touch more certain, his need more unguarded and alive.
He unhooked her bra, his fingers tracing the straps as if they were sacred artifacts. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, watching them tighten into hard peaks.
She arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips. The sound was a catalyst. It broke the last of the dam inside him.
He rolled her, his strength surprising them both.
He laid her gently on her back, his body covering hers.
After another deep kiss, he stood and dropped his pajama pants.
He helped her shed the rest of her clothes, until there was nothing left but skin on skin, scarred and smooth, a testament to survival and love.
His mouth found her breast again, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before he drew it deep into his mouth.
She tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him to her, her hips rising instinctively to meet his.
He moved to her other breast, giving it the same loving attention, his hand tracing a path down her stomach, lower, to the slick heat between her thighs.
He stroked her gently, exploring, learning her all over again. His touch was hesitant at first, then grew bolder as her soft cries encouraged him. He slid a finger inside her, then another, his thumb circling her clit.
“Dante,” she gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders. “Please… I need you.”
He rose over her, his eyes locking with hers. There was no fear, only a fierce, unwavering love. He positioned himself at her entrance, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, of giving her control.
“Take me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Take all of me.”