Page 49 of Made for Saints

But I didn’t feel regret—not yet. All I felt was the thrill of defiance, the way my heart pounded as his gaze burned into mine. Taunting Dante was like playing with fire, and I didn’t care if I got burned.

Because the truth was, I liked the way he looked at me when I pushed him too far. I liked the way his control cracked, like I was the only one who could unnerve him.

His eyes flicked down to where his fingers rested against my bare skin, and I cursed myself as I realized I was, in fact, trembling. His smirk deepened, and I felt the heat rising to my cheeks.

“Next time you want to parade around half-naked…” His voice dropped an octave, the rasp in it sending a shiver down my spine. “…make sure I’m gone first.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I said, my voice sharper now, trying to claw back some semblance of control.

“Didn’t you?” His hand slid lower, grazing the curve of my arm before gripping the counter beside me. He leaned in even closer, his lips hovering just inches from mine. “Or are you just testing me?”

My throat dried, and I struggled to find my voice. “You think everything’s about you, don’t you?”

He chuckled again, and the sound was infuriatingly smug. “You’re making it very hard to believe otherwise.”

The pasta water hissed as it boiled over onto the stovetop, but neither of us moved. The sound barely registered over the pounding of my heart and the way his gaze dipped lower, lingering on the curve of my collarbone, my lips, and the bare skin he had no right to be looking at.

“You should go,” I said, but the words came out weaker than I intended, my voice shaking under the weight of his presence.

“Do you want me to?” His tone was almost casual, but the challenge in his eyes was anything but.

I hated that I didn’t have an immediate answer.

His other hand came up, his fingers gripping my chin and tilting my face up toward his. His touch was firm but not rough, and it sent a jolt of heat straight through me. “Say the word, Emilia. Tell me to walk away, and I will.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. His gaze dropped to my lips, and my resolve wavered, the air between us tightening like a noose.

“Afraid of what you’ll do if I don’t?” I whispered, my voice barely audible, but I knew he heard it.

Something flickered in his eyes—something dangerous. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he was going to close the gap, to kiss me, to ruin us both.

But then, with an exhale that sounded like it cost him everything, he stepped back. His movements were sharp and deliberate, like he was physically forcing himself to retreat. Hishand lingered on my chin for half a second longer before he let go, his fingers brushing against my skin one last time as he pulled away.

“Clothes,” he said again, his voice tight and controlled, though the strain in it was unmistakable. “Now.”

He turned to the stove, reaching out to turn off the burner, cutting off the boiling water with a flick of his wrist. For a moment, I just stood there, frozen in place, my body still humming from his proximity.

“Goodnight, Emilia,” he said, his tone clipped, before stalking out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

I stayed there for a long time, the air still charged with the aftermath of his presence. My hands splayed against the counter for support, my knuckles brushing against the cool marble as I tried to steady my breathing.

The rain outside had picked up, the sound of it pattering against the windows like a heartbeat. Goosebumps rose on my skin, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the chill or the memory of his touch.

I hated him in that moment. Hated the way he could unravel me so easily, the way his presence lingered long after he was gone.

Shaking my head, I turned back to the stove, draining the pasta with trembling hands. But the meal was forgotten, replaced by a different kind of hunger—one I didn’t want to name.

Later, as I lay in bed, the memory of his touch haunted me like a ghost. His voice, the heat of his breath, the way he’d looked at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered—it all replayed in my mind, vivid and unrelenting until I fell asleep.

Chapter 18

Emilia

“Father, this is ridiculous,” I say, pacing the length of his office. The heels of my shoes click against the polished wood floor, a sharp, staccato rhythm that matches the irritation bubbling in my chest.

My father barely glances up from his desk, the faint glow of his laptop reflecting off his glasses. “What’s ridiculous, Emilia? That your brothers are conveniently unavailable, or that you’re making a fuss over something so trivial?”

“Both,” I snap, throwing my hands up in frustration. “I just need a ride to a few appointments before Adrianna’s bridal shower. Why is that such a production? I can call an Uber—”

---