Page 171 of Made for Sinners

He stepped out of the building like a storm breaking across the sky—black suit, black shirt, no tie. His hair was tousled, his jaw tight, his eyes dark and wild and locked on me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

I didn’t think.

I ran.

The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I sprinted across the courtyard, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. My dress tangled around my legs, my hair whipped across my face, but I didn’t stop.

He didn’t move.

He just stood there, watching me, his hands clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling like he was holding back a scream.

And then I was in his arms.

He caught me like he’d been waiting for it—like he’d been standing there with his arms open for hours, just waiting for me to come home. He wrapped around me like armor, like fire, like everything I’d been missing.

I buried my face in his chest and sobbed.

Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet, broken sounds that slipped out before I could stop them. His hand slid into my hair, cradlingthe back of my head, and he held me like he was afraid I’d disappear again.

“I’m here,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “I’m here.”

“I know,” he said, and his voice cracked.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears I hadn’t realized were falling.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

I shook my head. “No. Not really. Just… scared.”

His jaw tightened.

He kissed me then—hard and desperate and full of all the things we hadn’t said. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a war cry. A promise. A vow.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered.

“You didn’t,” I said. “You never will.”

He closed his eyes, breathing me in like I was oxygen.

The ride back to the estate was silent.

Not the tense kind. Not the angry kind.

The kind of silence that came after a storm. When the world was still standing, but just barely.

Dante didn’t let go of my hand the entire drive.

He sat beside me in the backseat, his fingers laced with mine, his thumb brushing slow circles against my skin like he needed to keep touching me to believe I was real. His other hand rested on his thigh, twitching occasionally, like he was still wound too tight to relax.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t need to.

I just leaned into him, my head on his shoulder, and let the quiet hold us.

It wasn’t until we were back inside the penthouse—our penthouse—that I finally exhaled.

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