Page 62 of Shadows of Steel
I catch a flicker in her expression before she exhales sharply, steeling herself. “I’ve been receiving these kinds of notes for some time now. But there was never blood before.” Her throat bobs as she swallows, the weight of her words settling between us.
A slow, seething rage carves through me like a blade. My grip tightens, rage simmering beneath the surface, seeking an outlet. “Who?”
She exhales slowly, shaking her head. “I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet, reserved. She doesn’t elaborate, I can see her holding back, not yet ready to trust me fully. For now, I don’t press further, but something about this doesn’t sit right.
This isn’t merely a threat.
It’s a warning.
A promise.
Someone believes they can take her from me. A lethal fury coils inside my chest. My pulse is steady, controlled, but the violence simmering beneath the surface is ready to fucking detonate. I close the distance between us, my voice a quiet, deadly promise. “You belong to me, Harlow. And no one lays a fucking hand on what’s mine.”
Her eyes flicker with something indiscernible, a shadow of emotion just out of reach. “I don’t know what to tell you, Dante. I have no idea who he is or what he wants from me.”
I hold her gaze, my jaw tightening, my patience wearing thin. “I’ll find out. And when I do, this bastard will wish he had died long before I got to him.”
That rage I carry? It doesn't just burn for vengeance, it burns for her.
She looks drained, the weight of everything pressing down on her, softening the sharp edges of the woman I’ve come to know. Dragging a hand down the back of my neck, I exhale slowly, forcing restraint back into my body. Without a word, I take her hand and lead us upstairs. She doesn’t resist, allowing me to guide her into our bedroom. The space is bathed in the golden glow of the evening sun, its warmth at odds with the storm still raging inside me.
I guide her toward the bed, my grip firm as I ease her carefully against the pillows. She doesn’t protest, doesn’t speak, simply allows me to take care of her. Once she’s settled, I kneel at the edge of the mattress, fingers gently wrapping around her ankle as I slip off each sneaker, placing them neatly beside us. Still, she remains silent, watching me with eyes that reveal far too much, yet offer nothing at all. I pull the blanket over, ensuring she’s warm, cocooned. She barely stirs, releasing the faintest exhale before sleep claims her. She looks vulnerable in a way that makes something dark coil inside me, something possessive, something primal.
I lower myself into the chair beside the bed, my posture rigid, my mind far from still. I don’t know why I stay. Maybe it’s the need to watch the steady rise and fall of her chest, to confirm with my own eyes that she’s here, breathing, safe.
Mine.
Maybe it’s because, for all my rage, that I can’t do a fucking thing until I know who I’m hunting. My jaw tightens as I pull out my phone. I text Mario, demanding an update. His response comes almost instantly, short, to the point, and fucking useless.
Nothing. No tracks. No suspects.
My fingers tighten around the device before I force myself to exhale, glancing toward the bed once more. I should leave. I need to.
And yet, I hesitate.
That realization pisses me off more than anything else. This is why I fight it. Why I don’t allow weakness to take root. Because in my world, attachments are vulnerabilities, and vulnerabilities get exploited. Now here I am, standing in this fucking room, wanting to stay instead of handling my business. Instead of ruling like I’m supposed to.
It’s unacceptable.
There’s a meeting I can’t afford to cancel. One that wouldn’t be wise to postpone. My jaw clenches as I finally force myself to move, crossing the room in quick strides. I glance back once, before shutting the door behind me with a quiet click.
I make my way down the hall and stop in front of Mattia’s door. I knock once.
His voice rings out almost instantly. “Come in.”
When I step inside, he’s exactly where I expect him to be, sitting cross-legged in front of his TV, controller in hand, fully engrossed in whatever game he’s playing. The moment he looks up and sees me, he grins. But then it falters. Just slightly. “Oh… it’s you.”
I arch a brow. “Who were you expecting?”
He shrugs a little too quickly. “No one.”
I know exactly who.
Harlow.
My son has grown attached to my wife, and I don’t know how the fuck that makes me feel yet. He needs it, more than anyone. That much is obvious. I’ve seen the change since Harlow entered our lives, the way he’s started to come back to himself, to something he lost a long time ago. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Because attachments lead to expectations. Andexpectations lead to disappointment. I’ve already watched him lose himself once. And it nearly broke him. I won’t let that happen again.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I have a meeting to attend. I might be late, but I’ll try to make it back in time for dinner.”
