Page 23 of Auctioned Innocence (Bonds of Betrayal #3)

SOFIA

T he third morning at the cabin starts before dawn with me jolting awake from another nightmare, hands already reaching for weapons that weren’t there.

The phantom weight of zip ties around my wrists, the echo of a dismembered voice announcing my sale—it all feels so real that for a moment I can’t tell where I was.

The cabin. Safe. Free.

But my body hasn’t gotten the message.

I stumble to the kitchenette on unsteady legs, desperate for something normal, something routine.

Coffee.

I can make coffee.

A simple task, a basic function.

But my hands shake so violently I can’t even hold the coffee grounds container without spilling it everywhere.

That’s how Dante finds me—crouched on the floor, trying to clean up scattered coffee beans as tears of frustration stream down my face.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, careful, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Sofia, look at me.”

“I can’t even make fucking coffee,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the words. “I used to disable security systems, run complex cons, coordinate extractions. Now I can’t hold a fucking coffee container without?—”

“Without what?” He kneels beside me, his presence solid and grounding.

“Without feeling like I’m still there. Still trapped. Still helpless.” The admission tastes like failure in my mouth. “What if I never get it back? What if this is who I am now—someone who falls apart at the smallest thing?”

Dante is quiet for a long moment, studying my face with those perceptive gray eyes.

I can see him thinking, processing, the way he does when he’s analyzing a complex situation.

“You’re not falling apart,” he says finally. “You’re a fighter trying to reconcile with being forced into a victim’s role. Your body learned to survive by being still, by being compliant. Now it doesn’t know how to be powerful again.”

I look down at my trembling hands, at the coffee beans scattered across the wooden floor like dark tears. “So what do I do?”

“You need to move,” he says quietly, reaching out to still my shaking fingers with his own. “Your body needs to remember what it can do. Not just that you survived—but that you’re capable of so much more than survival.”

His thumb traces across my knuckles, warm and steady.

“You need to remember that you’re not the girl on that platform. You’re Sofia Renaldi. You’re the woman who got five other girls out alive.”

“I don’t feel like her anymore.” My voice is small voice, and I loathe how weak I sound.

“Then let’s find her again.”

He moves the furniture aside in the cabin’s main room, creating space on the worn wooden floors.

Not to teach me new skills—we both know I don’t need that—but to help me remember the ones I already have.

The familiar motions steady me.

My knife work is still excellent, my defensive moves still fluid. But there’s a hesitation now that wasn’t there before.

A split-second pause where I second-guess myself, where the auction house flashes behind my eyes.

“Trust your instincts,” Dante says when I froze mid-strike during our sparring. “They haven’t failed you yet.”

“They failed me when I got captured,” I shot back.

“No,” he says patiently. “They failed when someone with inside information sold out your location. Your instincts are what kept you alive after that.”

The handgun work goes better.

My draw is still quick, my accuracy still sharp. But my hands shake sometimes when I reload, when the metallic click echoes too much like the sound of a gun chambering a round.

“Breathe through it,” Dante coaches, standing behind me as I work through magazine changes. “Don’t fight the memory. Acknowledge it and move past it.”

Easier said than done.

But slowly, my confidence is returning.

My body is remembering what it’s capable of.

I’m finally starting to feel human again.

The systematic sweeps Dante’s contact warned about haven’t reached this sector yet—the searches are moving in a predictable grid pattern from the city outward.

We have maybe a week before they get here, which means time to prepare instead of just run.

And if I can become closer to Dante at the same time? Perfect.

It’s hard to ignore how every time he moves around me to adjust my stance, I feel his hesitation.

The way his hands hover before touching my shoulders. How his breathing changes when I lean into him. He’s fighting himself too, just in a different way.

And I want him to lose.

His control slips away with each new touch.

Good.

It’s about damn time.

Practicing long-range accuracy feels the most natural.

The rifle is steady in my hands, the scope familiar. This is the furthest removed from close-quarters combat, from hands grabbing at me, from being trapped and helpless.

“Breathe out when you squeeze the trigger,” Dante instructs, his chest finally pressed against my back as he adjusts my stance. But he’s not teaching me—he’s grounding me. Reminding me that I’m safe, that I’m in control.

His hand covers mine on the grip, warm and steady. I can feel every breath he takes, the solid strength of him surrounding me. This is therapy disguised as training, and we both know it.

“That tree. Four hundred yards,” he says, his breath tickling my ear. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

What I’ve learned is that I’m still me. Still capable. Still deadly when I need to be.

I exhale slowly, squeezing the trigger on the empty breath. The shot rings out. Bark explodes exactly where I aimed.

“Good girl.” His praise sends warmth through me that has nothing to do with marksmanship.

We’ve been at this most of the day—working through my responses, rebuilding my confidence, helping me process the trauma through movement.

My muscles ache, but I feel stronger.

More like myself.

Less like the helpless girl they tried to break in that mansion.

“Again,” I say, but Dante steps back.

“Break time. You’re starting to compensate for fatigue.”

I want to argue, but he’s right.

My hands are shaking slightly as I set down the rifle.

We settle on the cabin’s small porch with water and protein bars.

Dante chooses the spot with the best sight lines, always thinking like a soldier even during breaks.

He’s shed his jacket in the afternoon warmth, and I can’t help but notice how the soft flannel shirt clings to his shoulders, how the sleeves are rolled up to reveal strong forearms marked with old scars that tell stories I’ve never heard.

The mountain air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow, but what draws my attention is the way the breeze ruffles through Dante’s dark hair, making him look younger somehow.

Less like the deadly enforcer everyone fears and more like…just a man.

A beautiful, dangerous man who’s spent the day patiently helping me piece myself back together.

He hands me a water bottle, his fingers brushing mine for just a moment.

The touch sends heat spiraling through me despite the cool air.

He smells like soap and clean sweat and something uniquely him—something masculine and reassuring that makes me want to curl up against his chest and breathe him in.

“You did good today,” he says quietly, his gray eyes warm with approval as they study my face.

There’s stubble along his jaw that I want to trace with my fingertips, and his mouth…

God, his mouth .

I remember exactly how it felt against mine in that motel room, hungry and desperate and perfect.

For a moment, I can almost pretend we’re just on a normal vacation.

A couple enjoying the mountain air, the peaceful silence, the way the afternoon light plays across his features and makes his eyes look like storm clouds.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Dante asks, and there’s something in his voice—a gentleness that makes my chest ache.

I could pretend that the tension between us is just ordinary attraction instead of this complicated tangle of desire and trauma and years of forbidden want.

But sitting here with him, watching the way his eyes soften when he looks at me, I can’t ignore the history between us anymore.

“I was thinking about the library,” I say before I can stop myself. “Last Christmas.”

His whole body goes still. “Sofia…”

“You were going to kiss me.” It’s not a question. “Before Marco interrupted.”

He winces. “I shouldn’t have?—”

“But you wanted to.” I turn to face him fully. “Like you wanted to at my birthday party. And that day by the pool.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, staring out at the mountains. “Your nineteenth birthday party. You wore that blue dress.”

“You remember what I wore?” My heart skips.

Dante laughs but it isn’t one of amusement.

“I remember everything.” His voice is rough. “How you laughed when Uncle Lorenzo told that terrible joke. How you kept glancing at me when you thought I wasn’t looking. How I had to leave early because watching you was driving me insane.”

I’d wondered why he’d disappeared that night.

Marco had made some excuse about business, but I’d seen the way Dante’s jaw had clenched when I’d danced with Leo Castellano.

“And the pool?”

“You’d been swimming laps.” His eyes are dark with memory. “I was supposed to be checking the perimeter, but I couldn’t stop watching you. The way the water moved around you, how graceful you were. When you asked me to help with your stroke…”

I remember that.

How his hands felt on my waist, guiding me.

How I’d pressed back against him deliberately, feeling his sharp intake of breath.

“I wanted to pull you against me,” he admits quietly. “Right there in the water, in broad daylight where anyone could see. I wanted to kiss you until you couldn’t breathe.”

“So why didn’t you?” I’m barely able to get the words out.

“Because you were seventeen,” Dante bites out, his whole body tense. “Because I’d made promises. Because?—”

“Because you’re scared,” I finish, irritated. “Scared of what this means. Scared of how you feel about me.”

“What I wanted doesn’t matter.” But his voice is rough, his eyes dark. “What I want now doesn’t?—”

“Doesn’t what?” I shift closer. “Doesn’t matter? Because I’m too young ? Because of Marco? Because?—”