33. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Alina
The mansion felt different in the morning light—not safer or calmer, just exposed.
It was as if the night had peeled back a layer of her she didn’t know how to put back on.
She sat at the edge of Dante’s bed, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the wall as if it might offer instructions on how to function.
Her body felt heavy; her chest felt tight. Her thoughts were nothing but static.
Dante stood across the room, talking quietly with Luca.
She couldn’t hear the words, but she could hear the tone: sharp, controlled, dangerous.
She knew it was about her, and she hated that.
She hated the weakness, the need, and the part of her that wanted him to stay close even as it terrified her.
When Dante finally turned toward her, she looked away. She didn’t want him to see the fear still clinging to her, or how much she needed him, or how much last night had changed her.
But he walked straight to her anyway. “Alina,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
She didn’t. If she did, she might break again. He could see she was spiraling—the way her shoulders curled inward, the way she held the blanket like armor. He sat beside her, close but not touching. “Talk to me.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to.”
“You need to.”
“I can’t.”
He exhaled slowly. “Alina—”
She snapped—not loudly, just honestly. “I’m tired of being scared,” she said, her voice brittle. “Of being hunted. I’m tired of needing you.”
The words hit him like a punch. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. When she finally looked at him, her eyes were red and her expression was a raw mix of anger, fear, and something he didn’t dare name.
“I don’t want to depend on you,” she whispered. “I don’t want to fall apart every time you walk out the door.”
He swallowed hard. “You’re not weak.”
“I feel weak.”
“You’re not.”
“I feel like I’m losing myself.”
“You’re not.”
She shook her head, tears threatening to spill. “You don’t know that.”
He leaned closer. “I do.”
She didn’t want to fight, and she didn’t want to cry again, but the words kept coming. “You can’t keep saving me. You can’t keep throwing yourself into danger because of me.”
“I’m not throwing myself anywhere.”
“You ran into a building full of armed men!”
“I ran to you.”
Her breath caught. The words settled between them, simple and absolute. He wasn’t excusing his actions; he was defining them.
“That’s the problem,” she whispered.
“No,” he said quietly. “That’s the point.”
She stared at him, and the air between them felt too heavy, too charged. He reached out, gently taking her hand. She didn’t pull away.
“You think needing someone makes you weak,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
“It feels like it.”
“It feels like being human.”
She looked down at their hands. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“You don’t have to know.”
“I don’t know what this is.”
He swallowed. “I do.”
Her eyes lifted to his. He didn’t say the word—he didn’t have to. It hung between them, heavy and dangerous.
She whispered, “Dante…”
He leaned in—not touching her, not kissing her, just close enough that she felt the warmth of him. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until you tell me to.”
Her breath trembled. “I don’t want you to leave.”
His eyes softened. “Then I won’t.”
Something inside her loosened. She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, slow and careful.
“I’m still scared,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be.”
“You won’t be alone.”
She closed her eyes. She wasn’t alone—not anymore—and that terrified her almost as much as the night before. But she didn’t pull away. She stayed, and he held her like he’d been waiting for her to do exactly that.