“I just need a minute,” she whispers to herself, trying to stop her hands from trembling. Her champagne-colored dress, the one she’d saved up for three months to buy, has a broken strap and a stain she refuses to identify. She can’t go back to the gala like this. She can’t let anyone see her like this. The Hawthorn family doesn’t hire victims; they hire perfection.

Emma Claire Winters has worked too hard to lose this job. Four years as an event coordinator for Boston’s most powerful family. And finally, finally, she’s about to be promoted to senior director, about to be able to pay her sister’s medical bills without drowning. Close to proving she’s more than just the poor girl from Southie who got lucky.

She dabs her lip with a paper towel, but the bleeding doesn’t stop. The supply closet door opens. Emma gasps. She turns around, an apology already formed on her lips, but the words die in her throat.

Dante Hawthorn is in the doorway. He’s not just any Hawthorn. He’s the Hawthorn, the eldest son, the one people whisper about, the one whose name appears in newspaper articles accompanied by words like “alleged,” “investigation,” and “no comment.” A vision of sartorial perfection and controlled violence: his dark hair swept back, his gray eyes the color of a winter storm.

He’s wearing a tuxedo that probably cost more than her car. His bow tie is slightly loosened, the only sign that he’s been at the gala all night. Yet he’s 38. The sharp angles of his face make him look both older and younger, depending on the light. People say he took over the family business when he was 25, after his father died under circumstances no one talks about.

Emma has worked exactly 43 events in his presence. She’s spoken to him maybe a dozen times, always professionally, always carefully. He’s never looked at her the way he’s looking at her now. His expression doesn’t change. That’s what terrifies her. His face remains perfectly calm as his eyes shift from her torn dress to her bruised face and bleeding lip.

“Mr. Hawthorn,” she begins.

-Who?

His voice is calm, even conversational, but something about that single word makes Emma straighten her back despite the pain radiating through her ribs.

“It’s nothing,” she says quickly. “I just slipped in the parking lot. I’m fine. Really, I just needed a moment to fix myself up before…”

—Emma.

His name sounds different coming from him, deeper, more dangerous. He takes a step toward the supply closet and closes the door behind him with a soft click that seems to echo.

—I’m going to ask you one more time. Who did this to you?

I’d never heard him swear before. I’d never seen his carefully controlled mask slip even a fraction. But now something was slipping. Something in the way he clenched his jaw, the way his hands—those elegant, dangerous hands—slowly closed into fists at his sides.

“I can’t,” she whispers. “Mr. Hawthorn, please, I can’t afford to lose this job. My sister is sick and the bills…”

—Answer the question.

—It was an accident.

Emma approaches, and she should be afraid. She should be terrified. This man has a reputation. But when he slowly extends his hand, signaling his move, and gently lifts her chin with two fingers to examine her face in the light, his touch is incredibly delicate.

“That bruise on your cheekbone is from a punch. The split lip is from a ring. Someone grabbed your arm so hard they left marks; I can see them from here. And judging by your breathing, you have at least one broken rib, possibly two.”

Emma opens her eyes wide.

—How do you know what violence is like?

His thumb brushes against her jaw so gently that she barely notices it.

—I know what it’s like when someone tries to take something that doesn’t belong to them. So I’m going to ask you one last time, and I need you to understand that I’m not asking you as your boss.

His gray eyes lock onto hers, and she sees something fiery behind them that takes her breath away.

—I’m asking you this as someone who’s going to fix this. Who did this to you?

The gentleness of his touch contrasts so sharply with the lethal promise in his voice that Emma feels something break inside her chest. She’s spent the whole night holding back, but there’s something about the way he looks at her, as if she matters, as if hurting her would be an unforgivable offense, that makes the words spill out.

“Tyler Delano,” she whispers. “And three of his friends. He asked me to go with him. I said no. He didn’t like that answer.”

Dante’s thumb stops moving. For exactly three seconds, it remains completely still. Emma sees something dark and terrifying creeping behind his eyes. Something that makes her think of deep waters and whirlpools and things that pull you down, where no one can hear you scream. Then she takes out her phone.

“Marco,” she says quietly when someone answers, “I need you in the supply closet in the west wing. Bring the first aid kit from my office. The good one.” A pause. “No, not now.”

He hangs up and looks back at Emma. He really looks at her, and for the first time in four years working for the Hawthorn family, she sees something in his expression that isn’t perfectly controlled. It’s rage. Pure, cold, and calculated rage.

“Tyler Delano is Marcus Delano’s nephew,” Emma says quickly. She can hear the desperation in her own voice. “Marcus handles half of the real estate development in Boston. He has connections, political connections. If this becomes a problem, Mr. Hawthorn…”

—It already is.

Dante’s voice is soft, almost kind.

—The moment that little bastard laid hands on you, it became a problem.

—I can’t ask you for it.

—You’re not asking me.

She takes off her tuxedo jacket and carefully places it over her shoulders, covering her torn dress. The silk lining is still warm from her body heat and smells of expensive, now somewhat darker, cologne.

—You’re going to sit down, let Marco examine your ribs, and then let him take you home. Tomorrow you can take all the time you need with pay, but the gala is over for you.

—Mr. Hawthorn…

—Dante.

He says it in a low voice, but there’s steel underneath.

—When I am about to commit a serious crime on behalf of someone, that person can use my first name.

Emma holds her breath.

—You won’t. You can’t.

The door opens. A silver-haired man with a piercing gaze enters, carrying a leather bag. It must be Marco. He glances at Emma’s face, and her expression becomes carefully blank.

—Marco —says Dante without taking his eyes off Emma—, examine her ribs carefully.

-Of course.

Marco’s voice is professional, but Emma catches the look he exchanges with Dante, a look that says he understands exactly what has happened and what is about to happen. Dante takes a step back, giving Marco space to work, but he doesn’t leave. He leans against the supply shelves with his arms crossed, watching with those storm-gray eyes as Marco examines Emma with smooth, efficient movements.

“Two broken ribs,” Marco confirms after a moment. “Bruising on the arms consistent with immobilization. The facial injuries are superficial, but painful. He needs ice and rest.”

“He needs justice,” Dante says in a low voice.

Emma’s hands tremble again.

“Please, I beg you, don’t make things worse. Tyler said if I told anyone, he’d make sure I never worked in this city again. He said he’d tell everyone I was lying to him, that I was trying to set him up.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t lose everything by saying no to the wrong man.”

Dante moves away from the bookshelves and returns to her side. He crouches down to her eye level, and Emma realizes that this man, this powerful and dangerous man, is becoming smaller to her, less threatening.

“Emma,” he says, and there’s something in his voice she’s never heard before, something almost tender. “Do you know how many events you’ve coordinated for my family?”

The question catches her off guard.

—Forty-three—he confirms. —Do you know how many times I’ve seen you smile at guests who were rude to you? Who snapped their fingers at you as if you were a servant, who treated you as if you were invisible.

She doesn’t answer.

“Every time,” Dante continued, “you smiled. You were professional, you were perfect because that’s who you are. Someone who works three times harder than everyone else. Because you believe you have to earn respect instead of demanding it.”

Clench your jaw.

—But do you know what caught my attention the most?

Emma shakes her head.

“You never looked at me with fear, not once. Everyone else around me is afraid of me to a greater or lesser degree. And with good reason. But you…” Her lips form something that isn’t exactly a smile. “You looked at me as if I were just another customer, just another man in a suit, as if I were normal.”

“You’re normal,” Emma whispers.

“No,” Dante says softly. “I’m not really, but you made me want to be. And now someone has tried to take that courage away from you. Someone has tried to make you feel small. Someone has tried to make you feel afraid.”

He reaches out and takes her hand in a warm, firm grip, more stable than anything she has felt all night.

—I can’t fix what they’ve done to you, but I can make sure they never do it to you or anyone else again.

—How? —the word comes out broken.

Dante stands up without letting go of her hand.

—Do you trust me?

“I don’t know,” Emma admits. “Should I?”

“Probably not.” He helps her to her feet, placing a firm hand on her elbow. “But I’ll ask you anyway. Do you trust me to handle this?”

Emma looks at him. Really looks at him: at the controlled fury in his eyes, at the way his hand trembles slightly over hers, as if containing something volcanic; at the careful gentleness in every movement, despite the violence she can feel tangling beneath. Four years, forty-three events, a dozen conversations, and in all that time she has never seen Dante Hawthorn lose control. But now he doesn’t, not entirely. And that should terrify her. Instead, it makes her feel safe.

—Yes —she whispers—, I trust you.

Something changes in his expression, something that seems almost like relief.

“Then go home,” she says quietly. “Marco will drive you. Take tomorrow off. Take the whole week off if you need to. Your sister’s medical bills… consider them paid.”

Emma opens her eyes wide.

—You can’t.

—I can. I will.

His thumb brushes against her knuckles only once.

—And Emma, ​​when you go back to work, Tyler Delano won’t be a problem. None of them will be.

—What are you going to do?

Dante lets go of her hand and takes a step back. The kindness slips from his face as if he’s removing a mask, and what lies beneath takes Emma’s breath away. This is the man people whisper about. This is the man whose name appears in the investigations.

“What I should have done the first time someone in this city thought they could take what wasn’t theirs,” he says quietly. “I’m going to remind people why they fear me.”

Emma doesn’t sleep that night. Marco takes her home, a modest apartment in a decent neighborhood that she can barely afford even on her salary. He walks her to the door, checks every room with professional efficiency, and leaves his phone number on the kitchen counter.

“If you need anything,” he says simply, “anything at all, just call.”

Then he leaves, and Emma is left alone with her thoughts, the pain radiating from her ribs, and the memory of Dante Hawthorn’s touch on her hand. She sits on the sofa in the dark, still wearing her tuxedo jacket, and tries to process what happened. Tyler Delano and his friends, the parking lot, Dante’s face when he saw her bleeding, the way he said, “Who did this to you?” as if it were the most important question in the world.

Her phone rings at two in the morning. It’s her sister’s hospital. For a moment, Emma’s heart stops, but the nurse calls to tell her that Sarah’s outstanding balance has been paid in full. All of it. Six figures that have just vanished. And there’s a note in the chart saying that all future treatments will be covered by an anonymous donor.

Emma closes her eyes and exhales a shaky sigh. Dante Hawthorn keeps his promises. She wonders, what other promises will he be keeping tonight?

The answer comes at dawn. Emma is sipping her third cup of coffee, watching the sunrise over Boston, when her phone vibrates with a news alert. She barely reads it, but the headline catches her eye: Eight men missing in nighttime raid. Authorities investigate.

Her hands begin to tremble as she reads.

“Tyler Delano, son of prominent businessman Marcus Delano, was reported missing early this morning along with seven other men. Security camera footage from several locations shows the men leaving various establishments in the city between midnight and 3:00 a.m. They have not been seen since. Police are investigating but admit they have few leads. The missing men were last seen in different parts of the city, suggesting this is not an isolated incident. The families are asking for information. Marcus Delano could not be reached for comment.”

Emma puts the phone down, her fingers trembling. Eight men. Eight. She knows with absolute certainty that Tyler and his three friends are among them. She knows the other four were probably witnesses or accomplices, or people who knew and said nothing. She should be horrified. She should be calling the police. She should be doing something other than sitting here with Dante Hawthorn’s jacket draped over her shoulders, feeling safe for the first time since the parking lot.

But she doesn’t feel horrified. She feels protected.

Her phone rings. Unknown number.

“Hello?” His voice sounded firmer than I expected.

—Emma.

Dante’s voice is calm and conversational, as if he were calling to place a catering order.

—I hope I didn’t wake you up.

—I wasn’t sleeping.

“Good.” A pause. “I wanted you to know that you don’t have to worry anymore. The people who hurt you won’t be a problem. They won’t be a problem for anyone.”

Emma should ask him what he’s done. She should demand answers. She should be concerned about what happened to eight men between midnight and dawn. Instead, she asks:

—Have they suffered?

The pause is longer this time. When Dante speaks again, his voice is softer, almost surprised.

—Would you mind if they had done it?

“Yes.” Emma surprises herself with her sincerity. “I want to know if they were afraid, if they felt even a fraction of what they made me feel.”

“They were afraid.” Dante’s voice deepened. “They spent their last hours coming to terms with exactly what they had done and what happens to men who think they can take what isn’t theirs. They understood, Emma. I made sure of it.”

Something hot and sharp twists in Emma’s chest. It’s not horror, it’s satisfaction. Pure, primal satisfaction.

—Thank you —she whispers.

“Don’t thank me.” There’s something in his voice she can’t quite place. “I didn’t do it out of gratitude. I did it because…” He stops, takes a deep breath. “I did it because the thought of someone hurting you made me want to burn the whole city down.”

Emma holds her breath.

—Dante…

“Go back to work when you’re ready,” she says quietly. “But Emma, ​​when you come back, I need to know. Are you afraid of me now?”

She should have it. She should be terrified. But all she can think about is the softness of his hands on her face, how he crouched down to her level, the careful control of his every move despite the rage burning inside her.

—No —she says—, I’m not afraid of you.

“You should have it.” He sounds almost pleased. “Go get some rest. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

He hangs up before she can answer. Emma sits in the growing light, dressed in an assassin’s jacket, and realizes she has never felt safer in her life.

She returns to work three days later. The Hawthorn estate is buzzing with activity. Another event, another gala, another display of elegance and power. Emma enters through the staff entrance wearing a high-necked blouse that covers the fading bruises. She has styled her hair to conceal the cut on her temple. She walks exactly twelve meters before Marco intercepts her.

“Mr. Hawthorn wants to see you,” he tells her simply. “In his office.”

Now Emma’s heart beats strongly against her ribs, which are still healing.

—Is something wrong?

Marco’s expression does not change.

—He’s been waiting for her.

Dante’s office is on the third floor of the main house, a room Emma has only entered a few times. Oak paneling, leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens. The kind of room whose furnishings cost more than most people earn in a year.

When she enters, he’s standing by the windows, hands in his pockets, gazing out at the gardens. He’s wearing a dark gray suit that fits him like a glove, and his dark hair is perfectly styled. He looks exactly like what he is: old money and new violence, elegance wrapped in something deadly.

“Close the door,” he says without turning around.

Emma does it. Her hands tremble again, but not from fear. Dante turns around, and the expression on her face takes his breath away. It’s hungry, possessive, raw in a way he’s never seen before.

“How are your ribs?” he asks in a low voice.

—They’re healing. The bruises are disappearing.

“Good.” He goes to his desk and picks up a folder. “Tyler Delano and his friends have been officially declared missing. The police have no leads. Marcus Delano has pulled every string in his political network to try and find his nephew, but…” Dante’s lips curl into a cold expression. “Some people just disappear. It’s tragic, really.”

Emma should feel guilty. She should feel something more than this dark satisfaction that curls in her chest.

“Where are they?” he asks instead.

Dante puts down the folder and looks at it. Seriously, he looks at it.

Does it matter?

—I want to know.

-Because?

“Because I need to know if I should feel guilty for being glad they’re gone.” Emma lifts her chin despite the tremor in her voice. “I need to know if that makes me a bad person.”

Dante covers the distance between them in three strides. He stops just inches away, close enough for her to smell his cologne, close enough for her to have to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.

“They’re alive,” he says quietly. “Barely. They’re in places where people pay very well to make sure certain people never resurface. Places where they’ll spend each day coming to terms with what they did and why they can never do it again.”

His hand rises slowly, telegraphing the movement, and caresses her jaw with impossible delicacy.

—Does that make you feel guilty, Emma?

She should say yes. She should be horrified. She should push him away, call the police, and do the right thing. Instead, she leans toward his touch.

“No,” she whispers. “It makes me feel safe.”

Something burns in Dante’s eyes.

—Dangerous answer.

-Because?

“Because now I know you’re not afraid.” Her thumb brushes against her lower lip, which has finally stopped bleeding. “And that’s going to be a problem.”

Emma’s heart is beating so loudly that she’s sure he can hear it.

—What kind of problem?

“The kind where I can’t let you go.” His voice deepens. “The kind where I want to keep you close and make sure no one ever touches you again. The kind where I’m willing to make eight men disappear and not lose a single night’s sleep. And that means you have to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now… the way I’m looking at you… like I’m not a monster.”

He rests his forehead against hers and Emma feels the careful control in every line of his body, as if he were someone worth trusting.

—You are, Emma. Breathe. To me, you are.

Dante emits a deep sound in his throat, something between a laugh and a grunt.

—Emma, ​​I need you to understand something. What I did, what I’m capable of… Most people would run away screaming.

—I’m not going to run away.

—You should.

—But I don’t.

She raises her hand and covers his with hers, pressing her palm more firmly against his face.

—You asked me if I was afraid of you. I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of what will happen when you let me go.

“I’m not going to let you go.” The words come out fierce, final. “Not now, not ever. But you have to understand what that means. You have to understand who I am.”

—I know who you are.

“No.” Dante steps back just enough to look at her closely. “You know the surface. You know the carefully constructed facade. But, Emma, ​​I run half the illegal operations in this city. I make people disappear, I harm anyone who crosses my path. I’m not a good man.”

—You were good to me.

“Because you matter to me!” he says, his jaw clenched. “Because the thought of you being hurt made me want to commit murder. Because I’ve spent four years watching you from across crowded rooms, wondering how you’d feel in my arms. And now that I know you’re not afraid of me, I can never let you go.”

Emma’s breath catches in her throat. Four years. Four years. Her hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck and her fingers tangle in her hair.

—Do you have any idea how difficult it’s been to see you smile at everyone else? To see you be professional and perfect without realizing that I was losing my mind every time you said my name.

—Dante…

“I made eight men disappear for you, Emma.” His voice is raspy now, his control slipping away. “And I’d do it again. I’d do worse. I’d burn the whole city down if it meant keeping you safe. So before this goes any further, I need you to tell me if you can live with it. Can you live with who I am.”

Emma looks at him. She sees the desperation in his eyes, the careful way he holds her, as if she were something precious and fragile, despite the violence she knows he’s capable of. She thinks of Tyler Delano and his friends, in the parking lot, bleeding in a supply closet and feeling small, scared, and powerless. She thinks of Dante’s gentle hands on her face, Marco’s phone number on her kitchen counter, her sister’s medical bills paid in full. She thinks of feeling safe.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I can live with that.”

Dante closes his eyes. His grip on his neck tightens slightly.

—Don’t say that unless you truly mean it.

“I mean it.” Emma runs her hands down her chest, feeling her heart pound beneath her palms. “I mean it because you’re the first person who made them pay, the first person who looked at me and decided I was worth protecting, worth getting revenge on, worth…”

It doesn’t end because Dante kisses her. It’s not a gentle kiss. Four years of restraint shatter in an instant. His mouth demands hers with a hunger that makes her knees buckle. One hand tangles in her hair while the other encircles her waist, pulling her toward him as if afraid she might vanish. Emma returns the kiss with equal desperation. Her fingers grip his perfectly pressed shirt, and something inside her chest opens wide.

This is what safety feels like. This is what it feels like to be claimed. This is what it feels like to belong to someone who would burn the world down to protect you.

When they finally separate, both panting, Dante again rests his forehead against hers.

“Mine,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“Yours.” Emma doesn’t hesitate. “I’m yours.”

“And I am yours.” Her voice is fierce. “Every dark, violent, and dangerous part of me is yours. No one will ever touch you again. No one will ever hurt you. No one will ever look at you the wrong way without giving me an explanation. Understood?”

-Understood.

-Good.

He moves back just enough to look at her, and now there is something vulnerable in his eyes, something almost uncertain.

“I know this is rushed. I know it’s probably crazy. But, Emma, ​​I need you to know that this isn’t just about what happened. It’s not just about protecting you. I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you for years, and now that I have you, I’m not going to let you go.”

Emma feels tears stinging her eyes.

—Do you promise?

“I promise.” He kisses her forehead, her temple, her cheek. “I promise I’ll keep you safe. I promise I’ll take care of you. I promise no one will ever make you feel small or scared again.”

—And my job?

“Keep it, leave it. I don’t care.” His thumb wipes away a tear she hadn’t noticed fall. “Stay at the company or don’t. Move into my house or stay in your apartment. I don’t care about any of that. All I care about is that you’re mine.”

“I want to keep working,” Emma says after a moment. “I want to stay in my apartment. I want us to decide this together, without you making all the decisions for me.”

Dante’s smile is soft, almost tender.

—See? That’s why you’re dangerous. Most people in my life just say yes.

—I am not like most people.

“No.” He kisses her again, this time more gently. “Of course you’re not.”

Three months later, Emma enters her sister’s hospital room and finds Sarah sitting up in bed, looking better than she has in years.

“The doctors say I’m in remission,” Sarah says, her eyes glistening with tears. “Complete remission, Emma. Thanks to those new treatments, thanks to that anonymous donor who paid for it all.”

Emma sits on the edge of the bed and takes her sister’s hand. She’s now wearing a ring on her left hand, a stunning emerald surrounded by diamonds. Dante proposed to her six weeks ago in his office with the same intensity he puts into everything else.

“I’m so glad,” Emma says sincerely. “You deserve it.”

“Who is it?” Sarah asks suddenly. “The donor… you know him.”

Emma thinks about Dante, about the way he holds her at night as if she were something precious, about the way he has restructured his entire life to include her in it, about the businesses he has walked away from because she asked him to, about the violence he is capable of and the tenderness he shows only to her.

“Yes,” he says simply. “I know him. He’s a good man.”

Emma smiles.

—He’s my man. That’s all that matters.

The wedding is small and private, with only family and close friends at the Hawthorn estate, in the gardens where Emma has coordinated dozens of events, but never imagined she would have her own. Dante awaits her at the end of a flower-lined aisle, dressed in a black suit and gazing at her as if she were the only person in the world.

When she reaches him, he takes her hands and whispers so softly that only she can hear him.

—Last chance to escape.

Emma squeezes his hands.

“I’m exactly where I want to be. With a killer, with the man who made me feel safe again.” She lifts her chin. “With the man who made eight people disappear because they hurt me. With the man who paid my sister’s medical bills and asks for my opinion before making important decisions and hugs me like I’m a treasure. Yes, Dante, with you.”

She closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them again, they are burning hot.

—Then let’s make it official.

The ceremony is quick, traditional, beautiful. And when the officiant pronounces them husband and wife, Dante kisses her as if sealing a promise written in blood and fire.

At the reception, Marcus Delano arrives uninvited. Emma sees him first. A burly man with cold eyes and expensive clothes, flanked by two bodyguards. He heads straight to her table with the confidence of someone used to getting what he wants.

“Hawthorn,” he says dryly. “We need to talk.”

Dante sets down his champagne glass with careful precision.

—We don’t have to talk.

—My nephew has left.

Dante’s voice is flat and cold.

“And before you make any of the threats you came here to make, you need to understand something. Today is my wedding day. She is my wife.” He leans in and takes Emma’s hand possessively. “And if you ruin even a single moment, Marcus, you’ll be joining Tyler wherever he is.”

Marcus turns red.

—You can’t.

“Yes, I can.” Dante stood up without letting go of Emma’s hand. “I did it, and I’ll do it again with anyone who threatens what’s mine. So I suggest you leave now before I forget I’m trying to be civil for Emma’s sake.”

The bodyguards reach for their weapons, but Marco appears out of nowhere, flanked by six more men. The message is clear. This will end badly for Marcus if he keeps pushing. Marcus looks at Emma and Dante, at the small group of men ready to defend their boss.

“This isn’t over,” he finally says.

“Yes,” Dante says softly. “It’s over, you just don’t know it yet.”

Marcus leaves, and Emma realizes she’s not afraid of him or any of this, because she’s sitting next to a man who will make people disappear to protect her. A man who has just publicly claimed her in front of one of his enemies. A man who kisses her as if she were oxygen.

“I’m sorry,” Dante says quietly after Marcus has left. “I know it wasn’t the wedding you imagined.”

“No.” Emma leans toward him and feels his arm around her waist. “It’s been better. Because now everyone knows I’m yours and you’re mine. And nothing’s going to change that.”

Dante’s laughter is low and dark.

—Dangerous woman.

—I learned from the best. —He kisses her temple—. Dance with me.

They dance as the sun sets over Boston, and Emma reflects on how far she’s come. From a bleeding, terrified girl in a supply closet to a woman in a wedding dress, protected, claimed, and cherished. Dante pulls her closer, his possessive hand on her lower back.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers in her ear.

Emma smiles.

—That I would do it again.

—Do what?

—Saying no to Tyler Delano.

Look at Dante, this beautiful and dangerous man, who made eight people disappear for her.

—Because it led me here, to you.

Dante’s eyes darken.

—Don’t say things like that.

-Why not?

“Because I feel like finding Marcus Delano and making him disappear too.” But she smiles as she says it. “You’re going to be my downfall, Emma Hawthorn.”

-Probably.

She kisses him right there in front of everyone.

—But what kind of death?

Dante laughs. He laughs genuinely, and Emma realizes that this is what safety feels like. It’s not the absence of danger, but the presence of someone who will face danger for you. Someone who would burn the world down to keep you safe. Someone who would ask, “Who did this to you?” and mean it. Someone who would make eight men disappear in the morning and not lose any sleep over it. Someone who is hers.

And as they dance in the fading light, Emma Claire Hawthorn, formerly Winters, forever protected, knows she’s exactly where she’s meant to be: in the arms of a monster who chose to be gentle, with a killer who taught her it’s okay not to always be afraid, with the man who made her feel safe again. Though his methods would send most people running screaming, she doesn’t run.

If this story touched your heart, tell me in the comments what you would have done in the protagonist’s place.