Page 22 of Revenge Saints

Dante…

I close my eyes, drawing in a breath. No. I can’t break. Notnow. For him, for them, for Bryn. I have to stay strong.

As I strip down, I take in the space around me. The bathroom is small, the kind you’d find in an old farmhouse. Wooden panels line the walls, aged and slightly warped, like they’ve soaked in decades of quiet. The tiles are cracked in places, and the corners are dusted with cobwebs that were clearly just cleaned off. It smells faintly of old cedar.

The bathtub sits beneath a narrow, foggy window—claw-footed, stained with age. It’s not deep enough for any of the guys to fit in comfortably, but it’s warm. Quiet.

I sink back, watching the water shift colors as blood clouds around me, curling like smoke.

Mine… and Bryn’s.

God, my chest aches more than my leg ever could.

Everything feelstoo loudtoday—the creak of the floorboards, the hum of the fridge, the weight of air pressing against my ribs. My skin’s too tight. My thoughts won’t line up. I want to scream. Cry. Break something. And I don’t even knowwhy.

The world won’t stop moving, and I need it to. Just for a second. Just so I can breathe.

I still can’t make sense of it. Why kill her but not me?

We rantogether.We were side by side. Why shoot only her?

And I came back. I came back for her. They had the shot. They could’ve killed me too.

Something isn’t right.

And Roman killing Ethan… why? Wasn’t it because of Ethan that Roman knew about the base? Wasn’t Ethan the one who gave him weapons, the bullets, and the information?

Maybe Knox is right. Maybe I’m just overthinking it. Maybe they killed her because she shot two of his men.

I want answers… But deep down, I know I might never get them.

Reaching for a bottle, I pour the contents into my hand and work it through my hair. The scent is faint, something herbal and old, but it’s clean. I scrub the dried blood and sweat from my skin, each movement making me wince. Then I sink beneath the warm water, letting it hold me, letting the silence wrap around me like a blanket.

A knock at the door breaks the stillness.

“You okay in there?” Max asks gently.

“Yes, almost done, sorry,” I call back, slowly rising. Water cascades down my body, and as I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room, I see it: bruises, cuts, raw reminders of that awful day.

I try to lift my leg to step out, but pain shoots through it, and I wince hard. Getting in was definitely easier than getting out.

“Max?” My tone is quiet, hesitant.

“Yeah?” he answers immediately, like he was waiting right outside.

“Can you… help me, please?”

I hear the knob turn, and Max steps inside. Instinct kicks in; I try to cover myself, arms rushing up, and he notices. His eyes flicker with something like sadness.

God, it’s not because of him. It’s just… everything’s weird now. Mybody, my mind—I don’t even know how to react.

He turns slightly, keeping his gaze off me as he grabs a towel and holds it out. “Here.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, taking it and wrapping it around myself.

“No problem, sweetheart.” Then, without waiting for more awkwardness, he lifts me into his arms and carries me to the bedroom.

The sheets are fresh, thank God. The others must’ve been soaked in blood. On the corner nightstand, there’s a bowl of fruit, and laid out neatly on the bed are a dark shirt, cargo pants… and, to my surprise,panties.Pink, slightly faded, but clean.