Chapter 13 Katana
KATANA
The world swims back in pieces. First it’s the low hum of voices, then the antiseptic bite in the air. The sheets are stiff, but the pillow under my head carries a familiar scent. My lashes drag open slowly, every blink scraping like sand, while my ribs throb with each shallow breath.
Instinct claws up before memory. My hand twitches for a blade that isn’t there. Something pulls tight across my waist when I try to sit, and a curse dies in my throat.
Then Quinn’s voice cuts through, steady and low, pulling me back from the edge.
“You scared the shit out of us.”
My eyes focus. She’s perched at the edge of my bed, her blue eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
The memory floods back fast; the cage, Alicia’s cry, Serrano’s knife, Dante holding me upright, my blood everywhere.
I touch the ache in my side and wince at the bandages.
“How long was I out?” My voice is rough, my throat dry as sandpaper.
“Two days.” Her eyes gloss, her voice cracking. “A few inches higher and we’d be planning a funeral.”
“I’m too damn stubborn to die.” My laugh comes out broken.
“Stop trying to prove it.” Her smile is weak, but it’s real.
She brushes a hand over my blanket like she’s tucking me in, then glances past me.
I follow her gaze. Dante’s slumped in a chair a foot from my bed, arms crossed, chin tipped forward, hair falling into his face.
Even asleep, he looks dangerous. His shoulders rigid, his whole body wound tight like the fight never left him.
Quinn’s tone softens. “He hasn’t left your side once.”
Something twists hard in my chest. I should bury it under the steel I always carry, but the sight of him, blood still staining his shirt where he pressed against me, cuts deeper than I want to admit.
Before I can say anything, Quinn squeezes my hand. “I’ll give you two some time.”
She moves for the door, then pauses, her smirk wicked as she smacks the back of his head.
Dante jerks awake with a growl, cursing under his breath, one hand flying instinctively toward his hip. His eyes snap open, sharp and alert, scanning the room like he’s ready to tear through it.
Despite the fire ripping through my ribs, a ghost of a smile threatens.
“Relax, tough guy,” Quinn says, smirking from the doorway. “She’s yours now, but don’t make me have to dig a new grave.”
The tension drains out of him. Relief crashes over his face, raw and unguarded. He doesn’t look at Quinn, only at me. Our eyes lock, and something unspoken sparks, burning hotter than the ache in my ribs.
He drags the chair closer, the scrape of its legs loud in the quiet room.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he mutters, his voice rough, like it hasn’t been used in days.
I manage a crooked smile. “Some guard dog you are. Sleeping on the job.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.” His mouth twitches, not quite a smile but almost. “Just blinked too long.”
Heat crawls under my skin. I shake my head, trying to smother it with sarcasm. “You didn’t have to stay.”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning in close enough that I feel the rasp of his breath. “I did.”
Dante shifts until his knees brush the edge of my mattress. His gaze flicks to my side, then steadies on my face, hesitation carved into the lines around his mouth.
My voice drops. “How’s Alicia?”
“Quinn’s taking care of her. She’ll live. But I should’ve never let it get that far.” He drags a hand down his face, shame raw in the gesture. “She was my fighter, and I let her walk straight into Serrano’s hands. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself.”
I study him, Serrano’s words echoing in my head. My throat tightens. “He called you son. Said you betrayed him.”
His gaze cuts sharp to mine. “He took me in, but I was never his son. I was just another weapon. Victor Serrano took my brother from me, so I took his. As hard as I fought against it, I ended up exactly like him.”
“You’re not Serrano,” I say quietly. “I saw you down there. You’re nothing like him.”
His eyes search mine, like he’s testing whether I mean it. The silence stretches until he clears his throat.
“You’re bleeding through,” he says, his voice still rough. “I should get somebody to change it.”
My throat tightens. “You can do it.”
He exhales, sharp, and pulls the supply kit from the nightstand. His hands are steady opening the packet, but when his fingers graze my skin, sliding the hem of my shirt up, they tremble for the briefest second.
I flinch, not from the pressure but from him. From the heat crawling up my spine as his knuckles brush beneath the edge of my sports bra.
Our eyes lock. Something cracks wide open between us. The air charges like the space we’ve been circling for weeks finally collapses.
His breath ghosts across my face as he presses fresh gauze in place, slow and careful.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he mutters, low and dark.
“I can’t help it.” My voice is raw, softer than I mean it to be.
A muscle ticks in his cheek. For the first time, Dante looks less like the fighter who never bends and more like a man barely holding himself together.
His hand lingers at my ribs. My chest rises into his palm. Neither of us move.
I should push him away. But I don’t. My breath hitches instead, and his eyes darken. His thumb drags a light path along my side, enough to blur the line between tending a wound and touching me.
The room is quiet except for my heartbeat hammering. His gaze holds mine, hot and searching, and I know he feels it too. That pull neither of us can ignore.
His thumb shifts again, slow, almost unconscious, dragging a bare stroke across my side.
The touch sears hotter than the wound. His breath catches, rough, unsteady, and for the first time I see him falter.
Not the fighter, not the man with walls higher than mine, just Dante, trembling because of me.
I should move away. Shove the feeling down where it belongs. Instead, I lean into his hand, testing him, testing myself.
The silence thickens, unbearable, every second stretched taut. His gaze locks on mine shattering my restraint.
“Dante…” his name slips out broken, more plea than question. I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Comfort, his touch, or something deeper I can’t name. All I know is that I need it from him.
He exhales slowly, steadying himself. His thumb stills against my ribs, heat searing through the bandage. His eyes don’t leave mine, like he’s digging for something I’m not sure I want him to find.
“Do you regret it?” His voice is low, almost broken. “Trusting me?”
He’s not asking about fighting side by side, he’s asking if I regret letting him this close.
I should. Every reason says I should. But all I see is the way he looked at me in that basement like losing me would’ve gutted him.
My breath catches. “No.”
His shoulders loosen, like the word strikes deeper than any blade. I push through the sting in my ribs, forcing myself upright. “I don’t regret it, Dante. Not for a second.”
Something shifts in his face, relief, fear, hunger all tangled together. He exhales rough, the sound scraping against my skin. His hand is still there, still holding me together, but now it feels like he’s the only thing holding me at all.
Dante shifts closer, his face inches from mine, his breath warm against my cheek.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” he mutters, his voice rough. “I don’t deserve it.”
My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the wound. “You don’t get to decide that. I do.”
His hand tightens around my ribs, like he’s anchoring himself.
Then his mouth claims mine, slow at first, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid I’ll break beneath him. The kiss is warm, coaxing, then hungrier, all teeth and bruised need. My fingers fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, the pain in my side forgotten in the pull of him.
His hand slides higher along my waist, careful of the bandages, and the heat of his palm brands me through the thin fabric.
The kiss deepens again, slower this time, like he’s relearning how to breathe. Every touch is deliberate, his thumb stroking under the edge of my bra, his body angled close but braced so he doesn’t crush me.
For the first time in a long time I don’t feel broken, I feel alive.
He shifts, bracing one hand on the mattress, the other still warm on my ribs.
The weight of him crowds me without pressing too hard.
His lips trail from my mouth to my jaw, then lower, heat ghosting across my throat.
The scrape of his stubble sets my skin on fire.
I gasp, the sound tearing out of me before I can stop it.
“Tell me to stop,” he warns, his breath rough on my skin.
I shake my head, tugging him down. “Don’t you dare.”
A growl tears out of him, low and feral, as if I just cut the last thread of his restraint.
His mouth scorches my throat, biting and sucking until my pulse hammers.
His eyes search mine for any hesitation, and when I give him none, he bends to press his mouth to the curve of my neck.
The scrape of his stubble, the wet heat of his tongue, my back arches despite the pain.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” I breathe, clutching at him. “I want this. I want you.”
His hand stays splayed across my ribs, like I’ll come apart without him holding me there. “Fuck,” he mutters, half-groan, half-snarl, his body trembling like he’s seconds from breaking. Then his mouth is on my lips again, deeper, hungrier.
His hands move with restraint, sliding under my shirt, easing it higher an inch at a time. He pauses whenever I flinch, his eyes flicking to mine for permission. Each time, I nod. Each time, he keeps going.
When the fabric clears my chest, he lowers his head, lips closing over my breast. The scrape of his teeth, the wet heat of his tongue rips a gasp from me. My nails dig into his shoulders, clinging to this feeling.
“You’re so damn perfect,” he mutters against my skin.