I am back on the fourteenth floor. The dust. The velvet. The moonlight.
Gemma is sitting on the floor a few feet away, rubbing her arm where I struck her. Her eyes are wide. Not with fear. With concern.
"Dante," she says softly.
"Don't touch me." My voice is a ragged snarl. The beast lashing out because it is wounded.
"You dropped your knife," she says, pointing to the blade resting on the floor between us. "You were shaking. You were miles away."
"I'm fine. Go back to sleep."
"You're suffocating." She doesn't retreat. She shifts closer. The oversized shirt swallows her curves, but her heat radiates toward me. "Your breathing is shallow. You're having a panic attack."
"I don't have panic attacks. I assess threats."
"The only thing dangerous in this room is the memory of what happened. I’m the reality."
Her words slice through the remaining armor. She sees it. She sees the cracked foundation, the sixteen-year-old boy hiding behind the tattooed frame of the guard.
My jaw clenches. The humiliation of being seen in this state is a burning acid in my veins. A Costa does not show weakness. A Costa does not break.
But the tactical detachment is gone. And without it, I am just a man drowning in a twenty-year-old memory.
"Stay away from me, Gemma. I am a dangerous man right now."
"I know exactly how dangerous you are," she whispers. "You just pinned me to a wall and made me scream my own name. I'm not afraid of you."
She reaches out again. Slowly. Deliberately.
I track her hand. The soft curve of her wrist. The delicate fingers.
Her palm settles flat against the center of my chest. Right over the small, jagged scar.
The warmth of her touch seeps through the fabric of my t-shirt. It anchors me. The phantom scents vanish, replaced by the intoxicating aroma of her skin.
"Breathe with me," she commands.
I stare at her. Defiance. I want to throw her hand off. I want to roar and tear the room apart.
But I don't.
I inhale. The sweet orange fills my lungs. I exhale.
"Again," she says.
I obey.
The need inside me quiets. The roaring in my ears fades to a dull hum.
She doesn't ask what I saw. She doesn't ask who I was talking to in my head. She just sits there, an anchor in the storm, her hand over my rapidly beating heart.
The contrast is staggering. Minutes ago, I was destroying her against the wall, a predator consuming his prey. Now, she is holding the pieces of my fractured mind together.
This is the danger. This is why I should have taken her to the compound.
Because the forced proximity is doing more than just driving me insane with lust. It is stripping away the layers of the guard.
"You're a stubborn bastard," she murmurs, a faint smile touching her lips.
