Page 27 of Bound in Promise
Dante moves closer to the bed, but I scoot away from him. I don’t know what he wants from me, and I don’t think he knows either. “Don’t be like that. I’m not pissed at you.”
“I’m not so sure about that. One second you act as though you’re afraid I’m going to disappear if you blink and the next, you’re mad at me for not asking you to kill Liam in some drug dealer’s kitchen.”
“You should have.”
“He’s your nephew.”
“Not anymore. That boy fucked up royally.”
I’m done with this conversation, done with being the focus of Dante’s messy emotions.
I crawl from the bed knowing he’ll reach for me and try to keep this conversation going, so I speak before he can take a breath. I want some space. I need him to leave me alone so I can think my own thoughts. “I’m going to go take a shower.”
He doesn’t move to follow, giving me a chance to wrap my head around what he’s said, what he’s revealed.
This is what happens when I get in too deep and catch feelings. I’m fully aware I should not let myself get attached to Dante. No way, no how. I’m fully aware, that this isn’t going to end in a happily ever after.
But it’s too late.
I’m falling for him. And I can’t turn off the part of my brain that wants him and wishes for more than the deal we struck.
10
DANTE
Thursday, September 26, 11:47 PM
I’ve upset her even more, which wasn’t my intention.
I can’t get out of my own head, can’t stop imagining what could’ve happened. How close I came to being too late, to finding Victoria violated and suffering. She’d been through enough trauma before my nephew’s abduction.
It shouldn’t bother me this much.
Victoria was never supposed to be more than a short-term wife, a spouse in name only. A tool to use to get us both out of this Lombardi mess alive.
Yet, she became more than that.
My thoughts aren’t just focused on my plans anymore, but instead filled with intense feelings that demand attention and acknowledgement. They’re getting harder to ignore. To lock away and never deal with.
I’m unable to settle down, mentally and physically drained. My wife’s captor—her tormentor—is still breathing. He isn’t my nephew, not anymore, and now he carries an expiration date that I want to make good on. It’s personal. So many things could’ve happened to Victoria. Recovering from an assault or rape is far from easy, far from guaranteed. And even though she told me those things didn’t happen to her—the latter, at least—her assurance isn’t enough to quell my rage.
I’ve paced this hotel room a dozen times over, eyes flicking between the clock on the nightstand and the bathroom door. It didn’t escape me that she declined to tell me what she’d be willing to eat. I’m not sure whether it’s the emotional trauma or her head injury that’s made her too nauseous to consider food. While Victoria takes a shower, I muddle through my fuck up and revisit every mangled sentence that didn’t come out quite like I meant it to.
I don’t want her to think she did anything wrong by being better, more compassionate, than most other people. The woman has done nothing but surprise the hell out of me time and time again. The last thing I want to do is hurt her and add her to the list of casualties I’ve caused.
But articulating my feelings is a different beast. It feels impossible.
It’s a vulnerability that I haven’t allowed myself in years. Ever since Gabriella’s cruel betrayal, I’ve kept my walls up, caging my emotions and refusing to let others see my inner self.
Victoria coaxed my soul out from behind those walls, and now I feel out of control. Feeling wild, feral even, isn’t a good look for me.
When she finally comes out of the bathroom, she’s wrapped in a white towel. Her blue eyes are bloodshot and I feel like more of an asshole with every passing second.
I made her cry.
I made shit worse.
“Come here, princess,” I call, taking a seat along the edge of the bed and beckoning towards a pillow I’ve placed at my feet. “Let me brush your hair.”
