Page 128 of Made for Saints

His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw something crack in his armor. But then he pulled back, his hand dropping to his side as he turned away again.

"I can’t," he said, his voice barely audible. "I can’t give you what you want, Emilia. Not without destroying you in the process."

"What...what are you doing? You can't just spring that on me and then what...break up with me?!" My voice was hysterical sounding even in my ears.

I stared at him, my chest tightening as the weight of hiswords crashed over me like a tidal wave. Break up? Could you even call it that when we weren’t officially anything? When every moment we’d shared had been wrapped in layers of tension, desire, and unspoken truths? But it felt like a breakup. It felt like he was ripping something vital out of me, leaving a gaping wound that I didn’t know how to close.

“You’re serious,” I said, my voice trembling as I tried to process what was happening. “You’re actually doing this.”

Dante didn’t turn around. He stood with his back to me, his broad shoulders rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The moonlight cast a faint glow over him, highlighting the sharp lines of his profile, but he didn’t look at me. He couldn’t.

“Yes,” he said finally, his voice low and cold, like the snap of a winter wind. “I am.”

My breath hitched, and I took a shaky step forward, my heels clicking softly against the stone path. “You don’t mean that,” I said, desperation creeping into my tone. “You can’t mean that. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not after—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, his voice sharp and unyielding. He turned to face me then, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made my heart ache. “Don’t make this harder than it already is, Emilia.”

“Harder?” I repeated, my voice rising as the anger and hurt bubbled to the surface. “You think this is hard for you? You’re the one walking away, Dante. You’re the one deciding that this—us—isn’t worth fighting for. So don’t you dare stand there and act like you’re the victim.” I shook my head, my vision blurring as tears threatened to spill.

His expression softened for a moment, a flicker of something like regret flashing in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the cold, unyielding mask he always wore when he was trying to shut me out.

“I’m doing this for you,” he said, his voice steady but devoid of warmth. “You’ll understand one day.”

“No,” I said, my voice trembling as I took another step toward him. “I won’t. Because this isn’t about me, Dante. This is about you. You’re scared. You’re scared of what this means, of what we could be. And instead of facing it, you’re running away.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I thought I’d struck a nerve. But then he shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his tone dismissive. “This isn’t fear. It’s reality. And the reality is, you’re better off without me.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from my lungs. My chest ached, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. But I refused to let him see how much his words hurt. I refused to let him have that power over me.

“Fine,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended, though it cracked on the last syllable. “If that’s how you feel, then go. Walk away. But don’t you dare tell me to forget you. Don’t you dare act like you didn’t start this, like you didn’t pull me into your world and make me believe there was something worth holding onto.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. But then he took a step back, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher—anger, frustration, pain. Maybe all three.

“Goodbye, Emilia,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Forget me.”

And then he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing against the stone path as he disappeared into the shadows. I stood there, frozen, my chest heaving as I tried to process what had just happened.

Chapter 41

Dante

The ride back to the penthouse was a blur of city lights and suffocating silence. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white, the leather creaking under the pressure of my hands. The faint hum of the engine was the only sound, a monotonous drone that did nothing to drown out the chaos in my mind.

I shouldn’t have gone to the wedding.I shouldn’t have let myself get close to her again. But the moment I saw her on that dance floor, her laughter lighting up the room, her dress clinging to her like it had been tailored by the gods themselves, I’d lost whatever shred of control I had left. She was a magnet, pulling me in even as I knew she’d tear me apart.

And now? Now I’d left her standing in the garden, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and hurt that I couldn’t unsee. I’d walked away, thinking it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do. But the guilt gnawed at me like a rabid dog, tearing into the edges of my resolve.

I didn’t deserve her. I never had. But that didn’t stop the ache in my chest, the hollow, gnawing sensation that came with knowing I’d hurt her. Again.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and I stepped into the penthouse, the familiar scent of leather and wood polish doing little to ground me. The city stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sprawling maze of light and shadow that felt as cold and indifferent as I did. I shruggedoff my jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the back of the couch, and made a beeline for the bar.

The whiskey burned as it slid down my throat, the heat spreading through my chest like wildfire. I poured another glass, the amber liquid catching the faint glow of the city lights, and downed it just as quickly. But no amount of alcohol could dull the memory of her voice, the way it had trembled when she’d accused me of running away. The way she’d looked at me, her eyes blazing with defiance even as tears threatened to spill.

You’re the one deciding that this—us—isn’t worth fighting for.

The words echoed in my mind, relentless and unforgiving. She didn’t understand. How could she? She didn’t know what I knew. Didn’t see what I saw. If she did, she’d hate me. She’d hate herself for ever letting me get close. And maybe that would be better. Maybe it would make it easier to let her go.

But the bruises...Christ. The bruises.

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