Page 29 of Crown Of Blood

He’s a man who’s built his life on fear and power.

But just for a second, when he looked at me like that—

He felt almost breakable.

Chapter 8

Blood has a rhythm.

It’s the only sound in my head as I shove open the penthouse door.

The city’s night still clings to me—sirens, fists, the echo of gunfire. The smell of smoke and iron follows me in, sharp and familiar.

We found the bastard who took the shot at Isabella.

He didn’t talk easily.

He will now.

My shoulder burns where the knife slid across it, a shallow cut but deep enough to remind me I’m still human. I’d almost forgotten.

Nicole looks up from the entryway, startled. “Dante—”

“Not now,” I growl. “She’s asleep?”

“She went to bed a few hours ago. Sofia’s out too.”

“Good.”

I headstraight for my room. The adrenaline’s fading, leaving behind a haze of exhaustion and ache. My shirt’s half-soaked in blood. I tear it open, muttering under my breath when the fabric sticks to the wound.

The city outside my window glows silver-blue, indifferent to the violence it hides. I grab the first aid kit, toss it onto the counter, and start cleaning the cut with one hand.

It stings like hell.

I don’t care.

The door creaks.

I don’t look up right away, but I don’t need to. The air shifts—softer, lighter—and I know it’s her before she speaks.

“Are you—”

Her voice catches.

I glance up. She’s standing barefoot in the doorway, drowning in one of my shirts, her hair loose around her shoulders. The lamplight hits her like a secret I shouldn’t have seen.

Her eyes widen when she sees the blood. “Jesus, you’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” I say. “Go back to bed.”

She steps closer anyway. “That’s not nothing. You’re bleeding.”

“It’s handled.”

“It doesn’t look handled.”

Her tone cuts sharper than any blade. I should send her away. I should close the space between us with walls, not footsteps.