Chapter 17 The 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-" "Because I can't-I can't protect you and want you at the same time!" The words explode out of him. "I made a promise to Marco, and I've been...I've tried to keep my distance, do the right thing, but⁠-" His voice cracks. "Fuck, Sofia, I can't stop thinking about you. About touching you, about-" He runs a hand through his hair. "Marco would kill me if he knew." "Last Christmas in the library," I press, needing to hear it all. "What would have happened if Marco hadn't interrupted?" Dante's hands clench into fists. "I would have kissed you, backed you against those bookshelves and kissed you until you forgot your own name. Put my hands all over you and to hell with the consequences." The raw honesty in his voice makes me shiver. "I wanted you too." "I know." His eyes meet mine, burning. "That's what made it so damn hard to pull away." Before I can press for more, movement in the trees catches my eye. A flash of something that doesn't belong. Dante sees it too. In one fluid motion, he has me behind him, gun drawn. Nothing moves. "Inside," he says quietly. "Pack your gear. Quickly." "The shooting," I realize. "Sound carries in these mountains." Dante's jaw tightens. "I know. But you needed the training more than we needed perfect silence." It was a calculated risk. One that might have just cost us our sanctuary. But that night, after we've swept the perimeter and found nothing, the nightmares return. I'm back on the platform, lights blazing down on me while men bid on my life. But this time, when I look for Dante in the crowd, he's not there. Madame Rouge's voice echoes through the room, announcing my sale to the highest bidder. I try to run, but my feet won't move. Try to scream, but no sound comes out. Then I'm in that hallway again, watching Maisie fight Viktor with everything she has. Watching her beautiful, brave face as she drives her elbow back, as she tries so hard to break free. But this time, I can't move to help her. Can't do anything but watch as Viktor's gun comes up. "No!" The word tears from my throat as I bolt upright, heart hammering against my ribs. The bang echoes through the mountain night, but it's not Viktor's gun-it's the sound of Dante throwing open the door and rushing toward me. He takes in my tear-streaked face, my shaking hands, and the way I'm clutching the sheets like they're the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. "Shh, principessa." He's beside me instantly, gathering me close without hesitation. "I've got you. It was just a dream." "She's dead because of me," I whisper against his chest, clutching onto him. "Maisie died because I convinced her to fight back." "No." His voice is firm, absolute. "She died because Viktor Petrov is a monster who kills innocent people. She died because she was brave enough to stand up to him. That's not on you." I don't believe him. "But if I hadn't⁠-" "If you hadn't what? Been captured? Been strong? Been everything that makes you who you are?" His hand strokes my hair with infinite gentleness. "Maisie made her own choice. She fought because that's who she was-a fighter. Just like you." I clutch his shirt tighter, trying to anchor myself in the present. "I can still see her face. The way she looked at me right before⁠-" "She was proud," Dante says quietly. "Proud of you for trying to save everyone. Proud to fight beside you. Don't let Viktor take that away from her memory." My breathing gradually slows, matching the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "Stay?" I whisper. He hesitates only a moment before sliding under the covers. I curl into him immediately, fitting perfectly against his chest, my head tucked under his chin. "Just until you fall asleep," he murmurs, but his arms tighten around me like he's not planning to let go anytime soon. "I'm not a child anymore, Dante," I say into the darkness. His arms tense around me. "I know." "Do you?" I scoff. "Because sometimes I think you still see that ten-year-old who used to follow you and Marco around." "Trust me," his voice is rough, strained, "what I see when I look at you now has nothing to do with that little girl." I tilt my head up to meet his eyes in the moonlight streaming through the window. "What do you see?" For a moment he just stares at me, his gaze intense and hungry. "I see a woman who's brave enough to stare down armed men. Smart enough to hack security systems that stump professionals. Strong enough to survive hell and come out fighting." His hand cups my cheek, the pad of his thumb sweeping my skin. "I see the most beautiful, dangerous thing I've ever encountered." The word "dangerous" sends heat coursing through me. "Dangerous how?" "Dangerous to my sanity. To my control. To every promise I've ever made." His thumb traces across my lower lip. "Dangerous because you make me want things I have no right to want.' The words hang between us in the darkness, heavy with promise and possibility. I want to respond, to tell him exactly what I want him to do about those dangerous desires, but exhaustion and emotional overload finally catch up with me. My eyes drift closed despite myself, and the last thing I remember is Dante's hand still cupping my face, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns across my skin. I wake to pale morning light and Dante's heartbeat under my ear. For a moment, everything is warm and perfect. Then I shift, and his sharp intake of breath reminds me exactly why this is dangerous. Other parts of him are definitely awake too. "Sorry," I mumble, starting to pull away. His hand flexes on my hip, holding me still. "Don't." There's something in his voice that makes me look up to find his eyes dark, hungry, and completely focused on me like I'm the only thing that exists in his world. There's a heat there that makes my breath catch, a raw want that he's not even trying to hide anymore. His pupils are dilated, his jaw tight with the effort of restraint, and when his gaze drops to my mouth I feel it like a physical touch. The way he's looking at me-like he wants to devour me, like he's imagining all the ways he could touch me, taste me, claim me-sends liquid fire racing through my veins. My body responds instantly, heat pooling low in my belly, and my skin is suddenly hypersensitive everywhere we're touching. Which is everywhere, since I'm still pressed against him from hip to shoulder. His free hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my bottom lip the way he did last night. But this time there's nothing gentle about it. This time it's pure possession, pure want, and I can see in his steel-gray eyes that his legendary control is hanging by a thread. A branch snaps outside. We're both moving before the sound fades, weapons ready. Through the window, I catch another glimpse of movement in the tree line. This time, I'm sure it's not an animal. "Movement in the trees," Dante says quietly, scanning from the window. "Multiple positions. Professional spacing." My heart races as I look where he's pointing. Now that I know what to look for, I can see the signs-shadows that don't belong, the way certain areas of forest seem too still. " "How many?" I whisper. "Hard to tell from here. At least three, maybe more." His voice is stony. "They found us." "How?" I whisper, though I already suspect the answer. "The rifle shots yesterday. Sound carries in these mountains. Or they tracked the motorcycle." He's already moving, grabbing gear. "Could be anything. We stayed too long." "Shouldn't we run?" I ask, my mouth growing dry. This is all my fault. Just like being captured was... "They'll have the perimeter covered by now." His hand finds mine, steady and sure. "Standard containment-they're waiting for us to bolt so they can pick us off in the open." Another shadow moves between the trees. Closer this time. "So what do we do?" I hate how pathetic I sound, my voice small and unsure. What happened to the return of the confident girl that I felt yesterday? He scans the cabin's defensive positions, his jaw set in a way that indicates he's thinking. "We make them come to us," he finally says. "Force them into a chokepoint where their numbers don't matter as much." I also look at the room. "The front door?" I guess as Dante hands me a gun. "Too obvious. They'll breach from multiple angles." He moves to the window, studying the approaching figures. "But this cabin has good bones. Stone foundation, thick walls. We can funnel them where we want them." I check my weapon, making sure it's loaded. I take a deep breath. I need to focus. I can do this. "What's the plan?" My voice is finally sure and confident. "We let them think they have us trapped." That dangerous smile returns. "Then we show them exactly what happens when they corner a Renaldi and a Moretti." The sound of boots on gravel grows louder. They're moving in for the final approach. Time to fight. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...