Page 97 of Made for Saints

The words hit me harder than I wanted to admit, and I hated the way they made my chest tighten. There was something in the certainty of his tone, in the way he said it like it was a fact, not a promise, that made it impossible to look away.

But it also pissed me off.

“That’s not protection, Dante. That’s control,” I shot back, my voice sharper now.

“Call it what you want,” he said, his lips curving into afaint, knowing smirk. “But either way, it keeps you alive.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words caught in my throat as he spun me gently, the movement pulling me closer until my body was flush against his. The heat of him was overwhelming, his warm, spicy scent wrapping around me like a cocoon. My breath hitched, and I hated the way my body seemed to betray me, leaning into him even as my mind screamed at me to push him away.

His smirk widened, and for a moment, the tension between us shifted, the weight of the moment lightening just enough to make my lips twitch in reluctant amusement. “Admit it,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You like it when I get under your skin.”

I hated that he was right. Hated the way he could read me so easily, like I was an open book he’d memorized every page of. But more than that, I hated the way my heart skipped a beat when his thumb brushed against the bare skin of my back, the touch deliberate and maddeningly light.

“You’re infuriating,” I said finally, my voice lacking the venom I’d intended.

“And yet, here you are,” he replied smoothly, his smirk softening into something that felt dangerously close to genuine. “Dancing with me.”

I didn’t have a response to that, so I looked away, my gaze flicking to the crowd around us. The other couples were blissfully unaware of the storm brewing between us, their movements fluid and effortless as they swayed to the music. But I could feel the weight of a few lingering stares, the speculative glances from those who were undoubtedly trying to piece together the nature of our relationship.

“Let them think what they want,” Dante said, as if reading my thoughts. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” I said quietly, my gaze snapping back to his. “I don’t want to be the subject of their gossip.”

“You already are,” he said bluntly, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “You’ve been the subject of their gossip since theday you were born, Emilia. The only difference now is that they know you’re not alone.”

The words sent a jolt through me, and I hated the way they made my heart ache. He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was a simple truth I should have accepted long ago. And maybe he was right. Maybe I’d always been under their scrutiny, a pawn in a game I hadn’t agreed to play. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.

The music shifted, the melody slowing into something softer, more intimate. Dante’s hand slid higher on my back, his fingers splaying against my skin as he pulled me closer. The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it sent a shiver through me nonetheless.

“You’re trembling,” he said, his voice low and laced with something that sounded suspiciously like concern. “Are you cold?”

“No,” I said quickly, my cheeks flushing. “I’m fine.”

His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, his dark eyes holding mine, unreadable. And then, to my surprise, he smiled. Not the smug, infuriating smirk I’d come to expect, but something softer, more genuine. It was disarming, and I hated the way it made my chest tighten.

…And just as quickly as that rare, genuine smile appeared, it was gone, replaced by the guarded intensity I’d come to associate with Dante Conti. His hand remained firm on my back, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against the silk of my dress. The room seemed to shrink around us, the music fading into the background as the tension between us coiled tighter and tighter, like a string on the verge of snapping.

“I don’t understand you,” I said finally, my voice trembling, barely louder than a whisper. “One minute, you’re suffocating me, and the next, you’re...this.” I gestured vaguely, frustration bubbling up as the words failed me. How was I supposed to explain Dante? The man who drove me mad, kept me on edge, and yet somehow made me feel safe in a way I didn’t want to admit.

Dante tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing, unreadable. His silence only made the weight in my chest heavier, the air between us tighter. “This?” he repeated, his voice low and laced with something dangerous. “What am I, Emilia? Say it.”

I swallowed hard, the knot in my throat tightening further as I searched for the right words. “You’re infuriating,” I finally said, my voice cracking. “You push me, you corner me, you...you act like everything has to be your way, like you control everything.” My breath hitched, and I shook my head, trying to steady myself. “And then you go and—” I broke off, gesturing helplessly. “You make me feel like I can’t breathe without you.”

His smirk flickered to life, sharp and knowing, but it didn’t last. It faded almost instantly, replaced by something raw, something that made my chest ache. “You think I do this to control you?” he asked softly, his voice low, rough, and threaded with something deeper. “You think I don’t feel every second of this?”

“Then why?” I whispered, the question slipping out before I could stop it. My voice was trembling now, my frustration threatening to boil over. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, his jaw tightening as his hand slid to my waist. His grip was firm, grounding, but not rough—like he wasn’t trying to hold me there, but to tether himself. “Because I don’t care if you hate me for it,” he said finally, his voice dropping to a low murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against my skin, every word laced with quiet intensity. “You’re mine, Emilia. And I will protect what’s mine.Whether you like it or not.”

The words sent a shiver down my spine, and I hated the way they made my chest tighten, my breath hitch. There was no denying the possessiveness in his tone, the raw, unfiltered intensity that seemed to radiate off him in waves. And yet, there was something else beneath it—something that felt almost like...fear.

Fear of losing me.

“Dante…” I began, my voice trembling, but whatever I was about to say was cut off as a sharp, mocking laugh sliced through the air.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this cozy?”

I stiffened, my head snapping around to see Romero standing a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand and a smirk plastered across his face. His earlier retreat had clearly been temporary, and now he was back, emboldened and ready to stir the pot.

---