A week later, the doctor said I was well enough to move around, but I had strict instructions not to overdo it. The freedom of being on my own two feet felt amazing. While Aria attended her remote lecture and Dante was shut away in his office on conference calls, I decided to take a walk.
I aimed for the suite's small living area, only twenty yards from my bedroom, but it felt like a marathon. I moved slowly, using one hand against the wall for support. My body was still weak, and my muscles protested with every step. When I reached the sofa and was about to sink into its cushions, a wave of dizziness hit me. The room spun, and my knees buckled.
I never hit the floor.
Strong arms reached out, wrapping around my waist and pulling me back from falling. I was pressed against a wall of solid, warm muscle. It was Dante. His conference call must have ended. I could feel the frantic thumping of his heart—or maybe it was mine—against my back.
"I told you not to overdo it," he said softly, his breath warm against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with weakness.
He turned me gently in his arms to face him, holding my waist firmly to steady me. "Are you alright?"
His face was inches from mine. I noticed the flecks of gold in his jade eyes, the faint scar that ran through his left eyebrow, and the deep concern on his brow. The professional distance of a caretaker was gone. The raw intimacy of our late-night confession was also gone. This felt different—there was a tension between us that made it hard to breathe.
It was the first time we had touched like this, no longer as patient and nurse, no longer as victim and savior, but as a man and a woman. The awareness was strong and overwhelming, leaving me speechless. His grip on my waist tightened slightly, his thumbs brushing softly against the silk of my robe.
From the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Aria stood in the doorway of her room, clutching her books to her chest, her eyes wide. She took in the scene—me in Dante's arms, the charged silence, the look we shared—and a slow, knowing expression crossed her face. She silently backed away, giving us a space we didn't even know we needed.
Dante didn't seem to notice. His focus had narrowed entirely to me.
In that moment, as he held me, I realized with shocking clarity that all the hatred I had felt for him had vanished. It had been burned away in the warehouse, washed away by his blood, and soothed by his confession. In its place was something much more complex and dangerous.
It was no longer a debt of blood. It was something deeper, an emotional connection binding my soul to his. And as I looked up into the stormy green depths of his eyes, I knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and scared me, that he was trapped in it just as much as I was.