Page 82 of Auctioned Innocence
I want to make a joke about impromptu haircuts, but suddenly all I can see is Maisie crumpling to the ground.
All I can hear is that final gunshot, the sound that ended a life and changed everything.
“Hey.” Dante’s hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears. “Stay with me,principessa.”
The old nickname hits differently now. Not patronizing or diminutive, but tender. Protective.
“She died helping us.” The words tumble out like a confession. “If I hadn’t encouraged her to fight back?—”
“Then Viktor would have killed her anyway, but without giving the others a chance to escape.” His voice is firm butgentle, cutting through my spiral of guilt. “She chose to be brave. She chose to stand up. Like you taught her to be.”
“She was supposed to go home to her family,” I whisper. “She was supposed to dance again, to live, to?—”
A sob catches in my throat, and Dante pulls me against his chest without hesitation.
I finally let myself break, let myself feel everything I’ve been holding back since the auction.
The grief for Maisie, the terror of almost losing Dante, the rage at Viktor and everyone who thinks they can buy and sell human lives.
His heartbeat is steady under my ear, solid and real and alive.
His hands stroke my back in slow, soothing circles while I cry for my friend, for the innocence we’ve all lost, for the girl I was before tonight.
I don’t know how long we stay like this.
Long enough for my tears to dry and for the trembling in my hands to stop.
Long enough for me to become acutely aware of everywhere we’re touching—his bare chest against my cheek, his arms wrapped around me, the warmth of his skin seeping through my torn dress.
“Sofia.” My name is rough in his throat as I shift slightly, and I feel rather than see his body’s response to our proximity.
Warning or plea, I’m not sure.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes, my hands still pressed against his chest.
His pupils are dilated, and there’s something raw and hungry in his expression that makes my breath catch.
“We shouldn’t,” he starts, but there’s no conviction in it. His hands flex on my waist, holding me close even as his words push me away.
“Why not?” I’m still straddling his lap from when he pulled me close, and the position suddenly feels charged with possibility. “Because of Marco? Because I’m too young? Because you think I don’t know what I want?”
“Because you’ve been through hell tonight,” he says hoarsely. “Because you’re in shock, because?—”
“Because you’re scared,” I finish for him. “Scared of what this…what this means. How you feel about”—I swallow hard—“about me.”
His eyes flash dangerously. “Sofia?—”
“I’m not a child anymore, Dante.” I roll my hips deliberately, feeling him harden beneath me, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“We could die tomorrow,” he says desperately. “Viktor could find us, could?—”
“Then don’t you think we should live tonight?”
His control snaps.
His kiss steals the rest of my protests, fierce and desperate and everything I’ve been dreaming about for years.
It’s not gentle or careful—his mouth claims mine like a man starving, and I meet him with equal hunger.
