51. Dante
Dante
I need fucking air.
I shove outside, lungs scorched, suffocating inside my own skin—skin so goddamn tight I’m seconds from shredding it off with my bare hands.
I took her.
Then I destroyed her.
And when I did, the last twisted scrap of whatever heart I had left vanished into smoke. But what the fuck else could I do?
Throwing myself on a live grenade is one thing.
I will not drag Riley with me.
And letting Andre put his hands on her? I’d burn the city to the fucking ground first.
And the blood?
It’s back—hot, slick, dripping off my hands. I know it’s not real, but it feels real. Smells real. My mind’s favorite goddamn nightmare.
But hers?
That blood between her thighs, staining my heart, branding my fucking soul—that was real .
Now Pom knows monsters really do exist.
Our purpose in life? To punish joy and feast on innocence.
I close my eyes, forcing myself into those bullshit calming breaths Trinity and psycho Enzo swear actually work. Maybe if I breathe deep enough, the blood will fade.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
A pathetic attempt to purge Riley, and all this goddamned blood, from my head for good.
Ten.
Her scent—feminine, addictive, a ghost I can’t exorcise.
Nine.
That smart fucking mouth, defiant even when she trembled beneath me.
Eight.
Those eyes—bright, fierce sunlight daring to wage war against my darkness.
Seven.
Seven rogue freckles scattered across her torso—tiny constellations I’ve mapped out more times than I’ll ever admit, guiding me straight to hell.
Six.
That fucking necklace, biting into her throat like barbed wire pulled tight.
As if anyone could cage my girl.
My. Girl.
Five.
Her thighs straddling my lap—the exact second I spiraled into madness. I can still feel her heat branding my skin, searing straight to the bone.
Even now.
Especially now.
Four.
The desperate little sound she made when my fingers curled around her throat—a breathless, broken plea designed to wreck me.
She has no fucking idea what I’m capable of.
No clue how close she came to unleashing the real beast.
Three.
That goddamn dress.
Of course I shredded it. What did she expect?
Take one dress.
Add knife.
Hand to Dante.
It’s simple fucking math.
Two.
Her mouth—those perfect, trembling lips I’ve imagined wrapped around my cock from the first night at Enzo’s wedding.
One.
Riley.
Pom.
My undoing.
Even now, I’m hard. Again.
The forbidden fruit that has me so desperate, so fucking wrecked, I’d fuck a brick wall in the pouring rain if it gave me a single second of relief.
I suck in another breath, slow and deep, but it’s useless—she’s still there.
In my lungs. In my head. Crawling beneath my skin.
I need her gone. But now?
Nothing short of a bullet between my eyes and a tombstone etched Here Lies Dante could rip me away.
And maybe, not even then.
“Fuck,” I breathe, forcing down the aching heat in my pants as I pry my eyes open and risk a glance at my hands.
Clean. For now, at least.
The phantom blood from earlier vanished as fast as it appeared. But not the real shit.
Not the fresh crimson smeared across my knuckles, where bone shattered beneath my fists.
Not the raw, deep slice across the web of my left hand, courtesy of my own fucked-up miscalculation when I cut that goddamn necklace from Pom’s throat.
Pain slices deep as I flex my fingers, sharp and vivid, lighting every nerve on fire.
Detached, I watch the blood drip—like it’s not even my hand.
Tightening my fist sends fresh agony blazing through every nerve, reminding me to ease off—at least for a while.
Until a slick voice hits me like an icepick to the eardrum. “Drink?”
Uncle Andre.
My knuckles tighten reflexively, pain flooding in like an old friend.
Bring it the fuck on.