Page 104 of Made for Saints

He reached for my hand, helping me step into the tub. His grip was firm but gentle, and though I felt exposed, his steady gaze never wavered, never dropped from mine.

The hot water enveloped me in an instant, stinging at first, the heat biting at my skin, but I welcomed the pain. It was a distraction, a small reprieve from the chaos in my mind. I sank deeper, letting the water rise to my shoulders, and closed my eyes.

For a moment, I just floated there, the warmth seeping into my bones, washing away the cold that had settled in my chest. But the blood...it clung to me, stubborn and unyielding, a reminder of what I’d done. My fingers moved mechanically, scrubbing at my skin, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to get clean.

“Let me help,” Dante said softly, his voice cutting through the silence.

My eyes snapped open, finding his still locked on mine. He crouched beside the tub again, his expression unreadable.

“I can handle it,” I murmured, my throat tightening.

“Humor me,” he said dryly, but there was no bite to his words, only a quiet patience. He dipped his hands into the water, his touch gentle as he reached for the washcloth.

I wanted to argue, to tell him to leave, but the words wouldn’t come. I was too tired, too drained, and the thought of fighting him felt like more effort than I could muster. So I stayed silent, watching as he moved the cloth over my skin with a care that felt almost reverent.

“Lean back,” he murmured, his voice softer now.

I obeyed, tilting my head back until it rested against theedge of the tub. He reached for my hair, his hands steady and sure as he worked the bubbles into my scalp. The warmth of the water and the scent of lavender surrounded me, and for the first time all evening, I felt the faintest flicker of calm.

"I should've done this after the yacht incident."

"Done what?"

"Cleaned you up like this."

"We were strangers, Dante."

Dante worked the shampoo into my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp with a care that felt almost out of place coming from him. This was the same man who had just threatened to dismantle someone’s life with a single look, and yet here he was, washing my hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he replied simply, his fingers moving methodically. “But I want to.”

The words sent a ripple through me, and I closed my eyes, letting the sensation of his touch drown out the chaos in my mind. For a moment, it was just us—the hum of the city outside, the warmth of the water, and the steady rhythm of his hands in my hair.

As his fingers moved through the strands of my hair, I felt the tension in his touch—controlled, deliberate, but with a weight behind it, as if each movement carried something unsaid. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice quiet, almost distant, like he was speaking to the memory itself.

“The first time I killed someone, I was sixteen.”

My eyes opened, startled, but I didn’t move. His hands didn’t falter, though they stilled for the briefest moment, before continuing their slow, methodical motions.

“It was a man my father told me deserved to die,” he continued, his tone flat, but I could hear the faint edge beneath the calm. “A traitor, he said. Someone who had betrayed the family.”

I stayed quiet, unsure whether I should say anything at all. The air between us felt fragile, like the smallest sound might shatter whatever quiet truth he was trying to reveal.

“I didn’t question it,” he said after a pause, his voice lowering. “I wanted to prove myself. To show my father I was ready. That I could handle the weight of the family name. So I did it. I pulled the trigger.”

His hands stilled again, this time for longer, the pads of his fingers resting lightly against my scalp. I felt him exhale sharply, a breath that caught in his throat like it hurt to let it out. When he resumed, his movements were slower, hesitant now, as if he wasn’t sure if he should continue.

“But later,” he said, his voice gaining a harder edge, “I found out the truth.” His hand brushed against my temple, and his fingers curled slightly before flattening again, his movements less certain. “The man wasn’t a traitor. He wasn’t a threat. He was just...in the wrong place at the wrong time. A scapegoat for my father’s paranoia.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking into me like stones in deep water. “Dante…” I whispered, unsure of what I could say that wouldn’t sound hollow.

He shook his head slightly, his knuckles grazing against my skin as if dismissing the unspoken sympathy in my voice. “I was sick for weeks after,” he admitted, his voice so quiet it was barely audible, a faint waver threading through the carefully constructed calm. “I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face. The way he looked at me before I—” He stopped abruptly, his hands pulling away from my hair for a moment, as though he needed the distance.

I felt him shift slightly behind me, his breath steadying as though he’d forced it back into control. “And when I finally told my father how I felt,” he continued, quieter now, his tone sharpening like a blade, “do you know what he said?”

I shook my head faintly, the water rippling around me.

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