Chapter 13 New therapy
The rain pattered against the villa's terrace. Sienna Hale stood in the hallway outside the therapy room, staring at the closed door, telling herself not to hesitate.
Every morning she told herself it would get easier. But it hadn’t, not with him.
She adjusted her scrubs, squared her shoulders, and pushed the door open.
Dante Varon sat near the window, back straight, jaw tight, the new walker beside him like an unwelcome companion. The storm outside turned the sea into a dark mirror showing its cold, restless, and endless nature.
He didn’t turn as she entered. He knew she was there, he always did because they were the ones in the villa.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are standing close to my clock.”
“Then your clock’s broken.”
Finally, he looked at her with a slow, cutting glance that always felt like a dare. “Maybe it’s not the clock that’s broken.”
She ignored the jab and placed her clipboard on the counter. “What’s the plan today?”
His tone was calm, almost casual. “We’re changing the method.”
She froze. “Meaning?”
“No equipment. No bars. No chair. You’ll support me directly.”
Her brows lifted. “That’s not protocol.”
“It’s effective.”
“It’s reckless.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Maybe I’m tired of being safe.”
She folded her arms. “This isn’t about being safe. It’s about your recovery.”
“It’s about control,” he corrected. “And you don’t get to keep all of it.”
Her stomach tightened. He was baiting her, as always. But under the challenge, she could sense the raw, almost invisible thread of fear.
“Fine,” she said finally. “But we do it my way.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Your way,while you’re still standing.”
They started with balance work. It was simple, steady and familiar.
Sienna adjusted his footing, checked the angle of his hips. “Are you ready?”
“Don’t ask,” he muttered. “Just move.”
She stepped closer, one hand bracing his elbow, the other pressed against his ribcage for stability. His skin was warm through the thin cotton shirt. She could feel every breath, controlled, precise, and fighting not to show strain.
“Shift your weight to the left,” she instructed.
He obeyed immediately. The muscles in his leg quivered, trying to protest.
“Good,” she said quietly. “Now again.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s supposed to sound easy. It’s not supposed to be easy.”
His breath hitched. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Only when I’m proven right.”
He laughed. “Then I’ll make sure that never happens.”
She tightened her grip slightly as his balance faltered. “Stop resisting me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’re locking your knees.”
He met her eyes, they were dark and defiant. “Maybe I don’t like being handled.”
“You’re not being handled. You’re being helped.”
“Same thing,” he said flatly.
Her voice dropped. “Only if you hate the idea of needing someone.”
The silence that followed was heavy, sharp enough to sting.
For a moment, she thought he’d pull away. Instead, he straightened, forcing another step. His leg trembled again this time harder. She reached out instinctively, steadying him, and for one breathless second, the world narrowed to that single point of contact.
Her hand on his chest. His heartbeat under her palm.
Then like a curse. His body lurched.
“Dante”
He stumbled. She barely caught him,her arms wrapping around his shoulders as he fell into her. The walker crashed to the side with a metallic clang.
He braced against her, breath ragged. “Don’t let go.”
“I’ve got you,” she said quickly. “Just breathe.”
His weight was solid, heavy, all muscle and defiance. She felt the tremor run through him not from pain, but fury. At himself. At her. At everything.
“Stop fighting me,” she said again, quieter this time.
“You think I’m fighting you?” His voice was hoarse, close to her ear. “You think I like this?”
“I think you hate being human.”
That made him flinch. His jaw locked, and he pushed away, reclaiming his balance with brutal effort.
“Session is over,” he said.
“Not yet.”
He turned on her, eyes sharp. “You’re not my prison warden.”
“And you’re not my test subject.”
They stared at each other, two stubborn forces refusing to yield.
She spoke first. “You wanted a new method. This is it, keep going.”
His lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re enjoying this.”
“No,but I am winning.”
That did it. He took a step forward unsteady but deliberate. Then another. And another. Each step was rough, imperfect, but his.
Sienna stayed close, ready to catch him again if he faltered. Her pulse pounded in her throat. She was really scared for him.
“Good,” she said softly. “Now again.”
He grimaced, catching his breath. “You call that good?”
“You’re upright. That’s progress.”
“Barely.”
“Progress is progress.”
His gaze flicked up to her face as if searching for something. “You really believe that?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once, then stopped moving. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly over the sea.
Then, quietly, he said, “I used to fly. You know that?”
She frowned. “You were a pilot?”
“Not the kind with wings. The kind that outran everything else.”
She knew what he meant, she understood the metaphor buried inside the arrogance. The speed, the risk, and the need for control. That wasn't the first time he was talking about it.
“And now?” she asked.
“Now I crawl.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like pity, and pity was the one thing he wouldn’t tolerate.
Instead, she said, “Then crawl better.”
That startled him and for a fleeting second, he almost smiled.
They worked in silence for another half an hour. The rhythm between them shifted from less combative to desperation. Every step was a battle. Every pause was loaded with words and pain.
At one point, his leg gave out completely. He grabbed her shoulder to steady himself, and their bodies collided again closely.
She could feel the heat of his skin through his shirt, the uneven rhythm of his breath. Her pulse stuttered.
“Dante.”
“Don’t move.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Then stay still.”
Her throat went dry. She wanted to step back, but his fingers brushed her wrist unintentionally, maybe, but it froze her in place.
For a moment, the room felt like it had no air.
“This isn’t therapy anymore,” she whispered.
“It’s whatever you think it is.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “It’s you losing control.”
He looked at her with regrets in his eyes.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Then stop.”
“I can’t.”
The words came out raw, and almost painful.
Her voice softened. “Then let me help you, Dante Varon.”
“Ha ha ha ha" he laughed out loud loudly. “You’re already doing so. And that’s the problem.”
Before she could respond, his leg buckled again. She caught him, both of them crashing against the therapy bar. Her shoulder hit the wood, pain shot down her arm, but she held on, anchoring them both.
He gritted his teeth, his face was pale with sweat beading along his temple. “Don’t”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you see me and pity me.”
For a heartbeat, they were locked there closely and unaware of their posture. Her hand still pressed against his chest, his breath rough against her cheek.
“Dante,” she said finally, barely audible. “You need to sit.”
He didn’t move.
“Dante.”
He looked at her then, and his expression was something she’d never seen before, neither anger nor arrogance. Just exhaustion so deep it looked like he was surrendering.
“Why are you still here?” he asked quietly.
“Because it’s my job.”
“Liar.”
Her pulse spiked. “What did you say?”
He reached for her wrist again, his touch this time was deliberate. It wasn't rough, but soft.
“You think I’m the broken one, Hale?” His voice dropped to a whisper, the words threading between them like smoke.
Her breath caught.
He leaned closer, eyes steady on hers unreadable, and dangerous.
“Look closer.”