Chapter 7 Quiet comfort
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the only sound in the room after Sophia left. Dante sat on the far end of the sectional, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely in front of him. He hadn’t moved closer. Hadn’t moved away either. Just… stayed.
I wiped my face again with the sleeve of my sweater, trying to pull myself together. The tears had dried into tight, salty tracks on my cheeks. My eyes felt swollen, raw. I hated how small I felt in this moment—like the seventeen-year-old girl who’d cried in his arms the night Dad died.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said quietly. “You’ve got Rossi stuff. Meetings. Whatever.”
His head tilted slightly. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”
The words landed soft. No growl. No command. Just fact.
I glanced at him. The firelight carved shadows across his face, making the gray at his temples stand out more, the lines around his eyes deeper. He looked older tonight. Tired. Like the weight of everything he carried had finally settled into his bones.
I drew my knees up, hugging them to my chest. “I feel so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“I trusted him. I let him in. And he—” My voice cracked. “He just… moved on. Like I was nothing.”
Dante’s hands tightened into fists for a second before relaxing again. “He’s a boy who doesn’t know what he had. That’s not on you.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I thought… maybe with him I could have something normal. Something outside all of this.” I gestured vaguely at the room—the opulent furniture, the bulletproof windows, the invisible cage. “Turns out normal hurts just as bad.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he shifted closer—only a foot or so, but enough that I could feel the heat from his body.
“Normal isn’t safe for you,” he said, voice low. “Never has been.”
“I know.” I swallowed. “But I wanted to pretend. Just for a little while.”
He looked at me then—really looked. Not the cold, guarded stare from breakfast. Something softer. Almost pained.
“I’ve seen what happens when people pretend,” he said. “They get careless. They let their guard down. And someone gets hurt. Or worse.”
I studied his face. “Is that why you’ve always kept me at arm’s length? Because you’re afraid I’ll get hurt?”
His jaw flexed. “Because I’m afraid I’ll be the reason you get hurt.”
The confession hung between us—heavy, honest.
I unfolded my legs, turning to face him fully. “You’re not going to hurt me, Dante.”
“You don’t know that.” His voice was rough. “I’ve done things. Seen things. I’m not… clean. And wanting you the way I do—” He stopped, exhaling hard through his nose. “It makes me dangerous.”
My heart thudded. “Wanting me?”
He met my eyes. No running this time. “I’ve wanted you since the day you walked back through that front door. Maybe longer. And every time I look at you, I remember the promise I made to your father. To keep you safe. Untouched. Pure. And then I look at my own hands…” He glanced down at them, scarred knuckles, veins standing out. “And I know I’m the last person who should touch you.”
I reached out—slowly—until my fingers brushed his. He didn’t pull away.
“You touched me last night,” I whispered.
“And I shouldn’t have.”
“But you did.” I laced my fingers through his. His hand was warm, calloused. Steady. “And I didn’t want you to stop.”
He closed his eyes for a second, like the words physically hurt. When he opened them again, they were darker. Hungrier.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
I didn’t hesitate. I shifted across the cushion until I was pressed against his side. He lifted his arm, draping it around my shoulders, pulling me in. My head found the crook of his neck naturally—like it belonged there. His heartbeat was strong, steady under my cheek.
We sat like that for a long time. No words. Just breathing. His thumb moved in slow, absent circles on my upper arm—over the bandage, careful not to press too hard. The fire popped. Outside, snow began to fall again, soft flakes catching the window light.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured eventually.
“I’m cold,” I lied.
He pulled me closer, tucking me tighter against him. His free hand came up, fingers sliding into my hair, cradling the back of my head.
“I hate that he hurt you,” he said against my hair. “I hate that anyone ever hurts you.”
I closed my eyes. “Then don’t push me away anymore.”
He was quiet so long I thought he wouldn’t answer.
“I’m trying,” he finally said. Voice raw. “I’m trying so fucking hard.”
I tilted my head up. Our faces were inches apart. His eyes searched mine—conflicted, torn, burning.
“Then stop trying,” I whispered.
His thumb brushed my cheek—wiping away the last trace of tears. Then it lingered, tracing the line of my jaw, down to my lips.
I leaned in.
He met me halfway.
The kiss was slow this time. Gentle. Almost reverent. His mouth moved over mine like he was memorizing every second. No rush. No desperation. Just… him. Tasting me. Breathing me in.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he said hoarsely.
“Good,” I whispered back. “You’ve ruined me for years.”
He let out a rough, broken laugh—the first real one I’d heard from him in forever.
Then he kissed my forehead. Long. Lingering.
“Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
I nodded against his chest.
He didn’t move.
And for the first time since I’d come home, the silence didn’t feel like a wall.
It felt like a promise.