Page 103 of Made for Saints

He opened the door and reached for me, his hands steady and sure as he lifted me out of the car. I wanted to protest, to tell him I could walk on my own, but the words wouldn’t come. My body felt heavy, uncooperative, as if it no longer belonged to me.

Dante carried me into the elevator, his arms cradling me like I was something fragile, something breakable. The warmth of his body seeped through the fabric of my torn dress, a stark contrast to the cold, sticky sensation of the blood that clung to my skin.

When the elevator doors opened, I was greeted by the sight of Dante’s penthouse—a sprawling expanse of sleek, modern design bathed in the soft glow of city lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, offering a breathtaking view of the city below, the glittering skyline stretching out to meet the dark cliffs in the distance.

Dante set me down gently, his hands lingering on my arms for a moment as if to steady me. “Stand here,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “I’d rather not have evidence on my white couch. No offense, princess, but the covers are a bitch to replace.”

I blinked at him, caught off guard by the casual remark. It was so unexpected, so absurd in the context of everything that had just happened, that a small, laugh bubbled up in my throat.“Not the first time we’ve messed up a couch together,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. My voice was lighter than I felt, a weak attempt to mask the weight pressing down on me.

Dante raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching in what might have been the faintest hint of a smile. “There she is,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.

I turned toward the windows, my arms wrapping around myself as I stared out at the city below. The view was breathtaking, the kind of scene that belonged on a postcard—the jagged cliffs in the distance, the shimmering lights of the skyline, the faint glow of the moon casting everything in a silvery haze. But I couldn’t appreciate it. Not really. Not with the weight of what I’d done pressing down on me like a lead blanket.

My reflection stared back at me in the glass, pale and wide-eyed, the blood on my dress stark against the emerald fabric. I looked like a ghost, a shadow of the person I’d been just hours ago. The person who had never taken a life.

Dante moved behind me, his footsteps soft against the polished floors. I felt him before I saw him, his presence a steady, grounding force that somehow made the room feelsmaller and larger all at once. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, his gaze heavy on my back.

“I’ll run a bath,” he said finally, his voice low and even. “You need to get cleaned up.”

I nodded numbly, unable to find the words to respond. The idea of washing away the blood, of scrubbing off the evidence of what I’d done, was both a relief and a torment. Would it make me feel human again? Or would it just remind me of how far I’d fallen?

Dante disappeared down the hallway, and I heard the faint sound of water running, the whoosh of the faucet filling the silence. I stayed where I was, my fingers gripping the edge of the windowsill as I tried to steady my breathing. The city below felt impossibly far away, like another world entirely—one where people were laughing, living, oblivious to the darkness that had consumed mine.

“Emilia.”

"Hmm?" I turned at the sound of his voice, it knocking me out of my thoughts - finding him standing in the doorway of what I assumed was the bathroom. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his tie discarded somewhere along the way, and there was something almost...tender in the way he looked at me.

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand.

I hesitated for a moment before stepping toward him, my movements slow and shaky. When I reached him, he didn’t take my hand. Instead, he guided me gently down the hallway, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of my dress, steadying me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

The bathroom was as sleek and modern as the rest of the penthouse, all marble and glass, with a massive tub that looked more like a piece of art than a place to bathe. Steam rose from the water, curling in the air like ghostly tendrils, and the faint scent of something soothing—lavender, maybe—filled the room.

Dante turned to me, his dark eyes scanning my face. “You’ll feel better once you’re clean.”

I nodded, swallowing hard as I reached for the straps of my dress. My fingers fumbled, trembling too much to undo them, and I let out a frustrated breath. Before I could try again, Dante stepped closer, his hands brushing mine away.

“Let me,” he said softly.

I froze, my breath catching as his fingers worked the straps free with a precision that felt almost clinical. He didn’t look at me, his gaze focused on the task at hand, and I was grateful for it. The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming enough without the added weight of his eyes on me.

When the dress pooled at my feet, I stepped out of it carefully, my arms instinctively wrapping around my body. Dante’s gaze flicked to mine briefly, and I saw something flicker in his eyes—something that looked a lot like restraint.

“I'll be right back.” he said, his voice steady.

I nodded again, watching as he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sudden absence of him felt jarring, the silence pressing in on me like a physical weight.

A few moments later, the door opened softly, and I startled, my eyes snapping open to find Dante standing in the doorway. He held a towel in one hand and a small bottle of bubble bath in the other, his expression unreadable. His gaze never left mine as he stepped into the bathroom, his movements calm and deliberate.

“I brought these for you,” he said, his voice low but steady.

I opened my mouth to protest, but nothing came out. I was too tired, too drained, and the thought of arguing felt like more effort than I could muster. So I stayed silent, watching as he rolled up his sleeves and moved to the tub.

He crouched down beside me, still meeting my eyes, and reached for the faucet. He turned the knob slightly, letting the water run for a moment before testing it with his hand. “Too hot?” he asked, glancing at me.

I tested it and shook my head, unable to speak.

Satisfied, he poured a small amount of the bubble bath into the stream, the scent of lavender quickly filling the room as the water foamed. Slowly I took off the lingerie I was wearing. The set we had picked out from shopping. I had worn it this evening in hopes he was going to see it, he would take it off me. I almost laughed thinking about the irony.

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