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His fingers tighten around mine and I squeeze his hand.

"Rest now. You're safe."

When his breathing evens out, indicating sleep or unconsciousness, I turn to Dante. The medic has finished bandaging his shoulder and administered painkillers, but his face remains drawn with pain and something deeper. Something too familiar to him.

Betrayal.

"Dante?" I reach for him, my hand finding his uninjured arm. "Why would you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Take that bullet for me?"

His eyes meet mine, pupils dilated from pain medication. "I would take a thousand bullets for you." His words are slightly slurred, but the meaning behind them is unmistakable. "You are mine to protect. Mine to love."

The admission, spoken so openly before his men that surround us, warms something deep inside me.

This is not the Dante who first claimed me as property, who paraded me around in skimpy lingerie so other men would see.

This is a man transformed by love. Still dangerous, still deadly, but now with purpose beyond power.

"I love you," I whisper, pressing my forehead against his. "My monster. My king."

"Your monster needs sleep," he murmurs, eyes growing heavy as the medication takes full effect. "And then... we hunt my brother."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dante

Pain greets me before consciousness fully returns. A burning, throbbing ache radiating from my shoulder down my left arm, then back up again in waves.

I've been shot before.

The sensation is familiar. The tearing of muscle, the searing heat of damaged tissue trying to knit itself back together. But this time feels different. This time, the bullet I took was meant for Francesca.

And I'd take it again in a fucking heartbeat.

My eyes open slowly, adjusting to the soft light filtering through gauzy curtains. The ceiling above me is familiar—ornate plasterwork, subtle cracks in specific places that I've memorized since… since… childhood?

Holy shit.

I'm in my mother's villa. In Italy. In the master bedroom where Francesca and I first truly connected.

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

Francesca's voice draws my attention to the chair beside the bed. She's curled there like a protective angel, the dark circles beneath her golden eyes betraying her clear lack of sleep. Her hair is pulled back in a loose braid, and she's wearing what appears to be one of my shirts.

She looks exhausted. Concerned.

Yet, still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

"How long have I been out?" My voice comes out as a rasp, throat dry from disuse.

"Three days," she replies, rising to pour water from a crystal pitcher on the nightstand. "The doctor says you're lucky. The bullet missed anything vital, but you lost a lot of blood on the way here. The infection was worse."

She helps me sit up, supporting my back with gentle hands as she brings the glass to my lips. I drink greedily, the cool water soothing my parched throat.

"And Antonio?" I ask when I've swallowed.