Page 107 of Made for Sinners

I had?—

“Dante,” she said softly, reaching for my hand. “Say something.”

I looked down at our hands, her fingers curled around mine. Small. Warm. Unshaking.

She was the only thing in my life that didn’t feel like a lie right now.

“I’m going to kill him,” I said, my voice low and calm.

She didn’t flinch.

“I’m going to make him tell me everything,” I continued, my gaze fixed on the window, the city lights blurring past. “And then I’m going to bury him so deep no one will ever find him.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then, softly:

“I believe you.”

Her voice was soft, steady, but it hit me like a hammer to the chest.

I turned to her, and there it was—this fragile, unshakable truth in her eyes. She believed me.

“I believe you.”

And that—God help me—that did something to me.

Not the kind of thing that made you breathe easier. Not the kind of thing that soothed the rage clawing through your chest. No. It cracked something open. Something raw. Something I didn’t even realize I’d buried under years of control and calculation.

I turned to her fully, my hand still wrapped around hers, and for the first time in what felt like hours, I really looked at her.

Her chest rose and fell, steady but deliberate, like she was forcing herself to stay calm. I could see it—how the tension coiled in her shoulders, how she was holding herself together with nothing but sheer will. And somehow, even now, she was the strongest person in the room.

But underneath all that—beneath the fear, the adrenaline, the exhaustion—was trust.

She trusted me.

After everything.

After the accusations. After the silence. After the way I’d made her feel like a suspect instead of a partner.

She still believed in me.

And I didn’t deserve it.

I didn’t say a word. I just reached for her, cupping her jaw with one hand, my thumb brushing along the soft curve of her cheek. Her skin was warm beneath my touch, her pulse fluttering just beneath the surface.

She didn’t pull away.

She leaned into me.

And that was all I needed.

Like I was trying to drown everything I couldn’t say—the fury, the guilt, the cold, hollow ache of betrayal—in the heat of her lips. Her mouth opened beneath mine, and she kissed me back with the same fire, the same urgency, like she knew I was unraveling and she was the only thing holding me together.

Her fingers fisted in my jacket, pulling me closer, anchoring me to her, and I clung to that like it was the only thing keeping me from breaking apart completely. Maybe it was.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was messy and raw, full of all the things we’d left unsaid and all the things we couldn’t take back. Her breath hitched when I deepened it, my hand slipping to the back of her neck, holding her in place like I couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

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