Page 101 of Made for Saints

I should have run. I should have turned and bolted out of the room while he was weakened. But something inside me refused to move. My feet were rooted to the ground, my gaze locked on the man before me as he struggled to stay upright.

Romero let out a guttural growl, his bloodied hand reaching toward me as he stumbled forward. My instincts screamed at me to act, and before I could think, before I could second-guess myself, I lunged forward and grabbed the hilt of the dagger.

With a sharp, desperate cry, I yanked the blade free from his chest. Blood sprayed from the wound, but I didn’t stop. I drove the blade upward, aiming for his neck. The dagger struck true, sinking into the soft flesh of his jugular with a sickening squelch. A hot, crimson torrent erupted from the wound, spraying across my face, my arms, and soaking the front of my dress. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, sharp and suffocating.

A strangled gurgle echoed out of Romero’s throat, his hands clawing weakly at his neck as blood poured through his fingers. His body convulsed, jerking violently as the lifedrained from him. He staggered backward, collapsing against the wall before crumpling to the floor in a lifeless heap.

I stood over him, trembling, my chest heaving as warm blood dripped from my hands and streaked down my dress in thick rivulets. The dagger hung loosely in my grip, its blade slick and glistening. Blood pooled beneath Romero, dark and sticky, spreading across the marble like ink on paper. His hands twitched once, twice, before falling limply to his sides.

The dagger slipped from my trembling fingers, clattering to the floor with a metallic ring. My knees buckled, and I sank to the ground, my back pressed against the wall as I stared at the lifeless body before me. My hands were covered in blood—his blood—and it felt warm and sticky against my skin.

I couldn’t breathe. The room spun around me, the edges of my vision blurring as the reality of what I’d just done crashed over me like a tidal wave.

I’d killed him.

The thought repeated in my mind, over and over, until it became a deafening roar. My first kill. My first kill. My first kill. The words felt foreign, unreal, like they belonged to someone else. Someone stronger. Someone colder.

The sound of footsteps snapped me out of my daze. Heavy, deliberate footsteps, growing louder with each passing second. My heart leapt into my throat as the door burst open, and there he was.

Dante.

He froze in the doorway, his dark eyes widening as they took in the scene. For a moment, neither of us moved. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint drip of blood hitting the floor.

“Emilia,” he said finally, his voice low and strained. He stepped into the room, his gaze flicking from Romero’s lifeless body to the blood smeared on my hands, my dress, my face. “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head slowly, my throat too tight to speak. He was in front of me in an instant, his hands gripping myshoulders as he scanned me for injuries, his touch firm but careful.

“Where are you hurt?” he demanded, his voice rising slightly as his eyes searched mine. “Tell me where, Emilia.”

“I’m not…” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I’m not hurt.”

Dante’s hands moved to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears I hadn’t realized were falling. His dark eyes burned with something I couldn’t quite place—relief, anger, fear—but his touch was steady, grounding me in a way I desperately needed.

“Then whose blood—” He stopped himself, his gaze snapping to the dagger lying on the floor beside me. Understanding dawned in his expression, and his jaw tightened. “Did he have a knife?”

I blinked at him, my mind struggling to keep up. “What?”

“Romero,” he said, his voice sharper now. “Did he have a weapon? A knife? A gun?”

I shook my head, confusion and exhaustion clouding my thoughts. “No. He didn’t…”

“Then how—” He stopped again, his eyes narrowing as realization set in. His gaze dropped to my thigh, where the leather sheath was still strapped beneath the torn fabric of my dress. “You used the dagger.”

Dante’s expression shifted, a flicker of something that looked almost like pride crossing his features before it was replaced by a cold, steely resolve. He exhaled sharply, his hands falling away from my face as he straightened, his gaze hardening as he looked down at Romero’s body.

“Good,” he said simply, his voice devoid of emotion. “You did what you had to do.”

I stared at him, my chest tightening as his words sank in. Good. He thought this was good. That I’d just taken a life—ended someone’s existence—and it was a cause for approval.

But I didn’t feel good. I didn’t feel anything except the cold, hollow weight of what I’d done pressing down on me like avice.

Dante crouched down, his fingers brushing against the hilt of the dagger as he picked it up. He wiped the blade clean on Romero’s jacket before tucking it back into its sheath on my thigh. The motion was quick, efficient, and entirely too intimate, but I didn’t have the energy to protest.

“You’re in shock,” he said, his voice softer now as he stood. “We need to get you out of here.”

“What about…” I trailed off, my gaze flicking to Romero’s body. The blood had stopped pooling, the edges already beginning to dry against the marble. “What about him?”

“I’ll handle it,” Dante said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But first, we’re getting you cleaned up.”

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