Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
A hospital.
I have a pipe in my nose and an IV in my arm.
My pulse spikes.
“Hush, darling. You’re going to be fine.”
I turn my face toward the sound of that voice.
Dante sits next to the bed, clutching my hand in his. Stubble darkens his jaw, and blueish circles mar his eyes. His jacket and shirt are crumpled. The disheveled state of his dark-blond hair tells me he’s worked his fingers through the strands repeatedly.
“Dante?” I croak.
“I’m here, darling.” He sweeps a hand over my hair, the gesture tender and careful. “How do you feel? Do you need more pain meds?”
It all comes back to me then—the church, the necklace, and the man who shot me.
Dante studies me closely, his expression concerned. “I’ll get the doctor.”
“Wait.” I tighten my hand on his. “Our attacker…” Swallowing away the sandpapery dryness of my throat, I moisten my lips with my tongue. “What happened?”
Shortly after Dante carried me from the church, I passed out. I just remember him calling an ambulance and shouting at them to hurry up.
Dante stares at me with that intense gaze that has the ability to pierce my soul. “This time, you were lucky. The bullet lodged in your right kidney. The surgeon had to remove the kidney, but he assured me that you can lead a perfectly normal and healthy life with your remaining one.” His throat moves as he swallows. “The operation lasted six hours. Recovery will take a few months, but I’ll be with you every minute of each day. You don’t have to worry about anything.”
I hear the facts, but they don’t sink in. They don’t affect me, not yet. All I can think about is… “Noah.”
“You’re still in the ICU. As soon as the doctor says you’re stable, I can bring him for a visit.”
“Is he all right?”
Dante’s eyes cloud over. “He’s fine. He just misses you.” Bringing my hand to his mouth, he kisses my palm. “Fuck, Tatiana. For a minute back there, outside that church, I thought—” His expression hardens. “I couldn’t lose you.”
His clothes aren’t stained with my blood, so he must’ve changed.
“What did you tell the police?” Because they would’ve asked questions if he brought me in with a gunshot wound.
“That we got robbed in the church, that you…” He clenches his jaw. “That you got shot and that the attacker took off with your engagement ring and the cash I had on me.”
It couldn’t have been that easy. “They believed you?”
“I told them you had suffered from selective amnesia and that your memory returned earlier tonight. The memories were traumatic, especially those surrounding your mother’s death, and you wanted to go to the church to pray before the party just like she used to do.”
“That must’ve been even harder to believe.”
“I don’t care what they believe.”
No, he doesn’t. A man like Dante doesn’t have to. He can get away with anything he wants, and he knows it.
Well, almost anything.
Tonight, the necklace was finally in his grasp. He held it in his hands for just a few seconds before it slipped through his fingers again.
I take in the savage, obstinate set of his handsome features. “You didn’t go after the necklace.”
He smiles, the gesture cynical. “Did you think I’d leave you to die?”
I don’t understand. The necklace was all Dante ever wanted. It was more important to him than anything in the world. He fought wars for that necklace. He swore he’d get it back and avenge Lee’s death. Yet he gave it up to save my life.
Did he do it for Noah? Or did a small part of him also do it for himself?
He presses another kiss on my knuckles. His smile turns amused, but he can’t hide the strain that tightens the lines of his face. “Why are you giving me that look?”
I stare at my hand that lies small and pale in his broad, darkly tanned, inked one. “Sometimes, Dante, I don’t understand you.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m not a complicated man. What’s not to understand?”
Lifting my gaze back to his, I search his face—wishing, hoping, and hating myself for it. I emphasize each whispered word. “What do you want?”
His answer comes easily, yet his eyes remain guarded. “I want you to get better.” When I don’t reply, he adds with vehemence, “I’ll get you the best doctors and treatment money can buy. We’ll see a nutritionist to work out a meal plan that’ll ensure your recovery and long-term health. If need be, I can get a full-time cook and nurse to stay at the house.”
The longer he talks, the more my heart sinks. That cruel thing called hope wilts and shrivels up inside me. Because this is nothing but his guilt talking.
Oh, Dante.
If only he’d given me a chance, we could’ve been so much more.
The knowledge that it’s over hits me far harder than the news about losing a kidney. This is what I wanted when I went to that church, not to be free of Dante but free of the constant heartache and pain of never being enough for him.