Page 173 of Made for Sinners

Later, after I’d showered—twice—and changed into one of his shirts, I curled up on the couch with a blanket and a cup of tea I didn’t really want. Dante sat across from me, his hands steepled beneath his chin, watching me like I might disappear again.

I didn’t know what to say.

So I said the only thing I could.

“I thought I was going to die.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

“They didn’t touch me,” I added quickly. “Not like that. But they wanted to scare me. And it worked.”

He nodded once, slow and deliberate. “They won’t get another chance.”

I believed him.

I’d seen what he was capable of. I’d seen the blood on his hands. I’d seen the way he’d looked at Aleksander’s body like it was nothing more than a message written in flesh.

But I also saw the way he looked at me now—like I was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

His brows pulled together. “For what?”

“For leaving. For putting myself in danger.”

He stood and crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of me. His hands found mine, warm and steady.

“You don’t apologize to me,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” I repeated, my voice soft, uncertain.

Dante’s hands tightened around mine, just slightly. “Not like that,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean you don’t owe me an apology for surviving.”

I stared at him, my chest tight. “But I left. I went through the tunnel. I didn’t tell you. I wanted—” I stopped, the words catching in my throat. “I wanted to breathe.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “I know.”

I blinked. “You do?”

He nodded. “I saw it in your eyes. Every time you looked at the gates, every time you touched the window. You were suffocating.”

I swallowed hard. “Then why didn’t you stop me?”

He exhaled, his gaze dropping to our joined hands. “Because I thought I could keep you safe anyway. I thought if I gave you space, you’d come back on your own. I didn’t think they’d be waiting.”

“They were,” I whispered. “Like they knew.”

His jaw clenched. “They did. Someone told them about the tunnel. Someone close.”

“Do you know who?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Dante’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing with a cold, lethal focus. “Not yet,” he said. “But I will.”

I hesitated, then added, “There was a man. An old groundskeeper. He’s worked at the estate for thirty years. He was the one who showed me the tunnel.”

His gaze snapped to mine.

“He knew about it,” I continued. “Said it was built by your great-grandfather. He told me where it led. Even helped me move the altar.”

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