One of the guards steps forward, hand outstretched like he’s going to stop us. But Dante doesn’t take his foot off the gas even a little. The gates are already open. The guard has to leap out of the way as we roar past him, missing him by an inch. We speed down the dark road, away from the gaudy mansion.

I let my breath out in a long sigh.

“My god,” I say. “That was insane.”

My heart is still racing. I’ve never actually witnessed a fist-fight before. I’m not used to violence. I don’t even watch it in movies. That’s why it was so disturbing to me when I saw Dante covered in blood that night.

Now I’ve actually seen him in action—seen him throw another man across the room as if he weighed nothing. I watched him choke Kenwood until the life faded from his eyes.

It was horrifying. And yet . . . I know Dante did it for me. I saw the look on his face when he crashed into the room, and saw me with my dress ripped, arms pinned behind my back. He went into a rage for me. To protect me.

I want to look over at him. I want to say something. But I’m so afraid to break the silence between us. To shatter this brief, moment in time, where I know for certain that Dante still cares about me at least a little. I’m afraid if I say anything, the understanding between us will splinter like glass and fall apart, leaving me cut and bleeding all over again.

But I have to speak. I have to say something.

“Dante . . .”

His dark eyes meet mine. They look a thousand miles deep. I can see past the anger, down to the pain he’s been hiding. I hurt this man. I hurt him badly.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Why was it so hard to get those words out?

Why didn’t I say them to Dante a long, long time ago . . .

The effect is instantaneous. Dante’s huge hands tighten around the wheel, and he swerves hard to the right. The car screeches and almost spins, sliding onto the gravel shoulder before coming to a stop.

Dante turns and faces me.

He’s frightening me, but I have to keep going.

“I’m sorry I left,” I babble. ”It was a mistake. A mistake I’ve paid for every day since.”

“You paid for it?” he says, in a tone of disbelief.

“Yes,” I’m trying not to cry, but I can’t help the hot tears pricking at my eyes. “I’ve been so unhappy . . . I never stopped missing you. Not for a day. Not for an hour.”

He’s silent, his jaw clenching and working while he seems to struggle either to say something in response, or to hold back.

I can see the battle on his face. Two forces warring inside of him—the desire to rage and yell, against maybe, I hope, the desire to tell me that he missed me too.

“You’re sorry?” he asks me, those black eyes searching my face.

“Yes.”

“I want you to show me how sorry you are.”

I don’t understand what that means.

He pulls the car back out onto the road. I don’t know where we’re going, and I’m too afraid to ask. I’m nervous and confused. But there’s also a grain of hope inside of me . . . because he didn’t reject me outright. I think there’s the tiniest chance he might forgive me still.

We drive back into the city without speaking. Then Dante stops abruptly outside The Peninsula hotel. This isn’t where I’m staying, so I’m confused.

“Go wait in the lobby,” Dante orders.

I do what he says.

As always happens when I’m self-conscious, I feel like everyone is looking at me. I have to hold the left strap of my dress together, because it’s still torn. After a few minutes, Dante joins me with a room key in his hand.

“Upstairs,” he says.

A shiver runs down my spine. I think I’m starting to understand, though I don’t dare say a word. I follow Dante obediently into the elevator, hands trembling and knees shaking with nerves.

The elevator rises up to the top floor. Dante leads me down the hallway to the Honeymoon Suite.

He unlocks the door and pushes it open.

I hesitate on the threshold. I know if I step over, something is about to happen.

I don’t care what it is. In that moment, I finally understand that I’ll do anything to have Dante again. Even just for a night.

I step into the hotel room. Dante closes the door behind me. I can feel his heat and bulk, right behind my back. I feel him looming over me. I’ve never known a man who could make me feel so small and helpless just by standing next to me.

When he speaks, his voice is the deepest and harshest I’ve ever heard it.

“Do you know what that nine years did to me?” he says. “Do you know what I did to try to forget you? I abandoned my family. I joined the military. I flew halfway across the world and fought in a hellscape. I killed a hundred and sixty-two men, just to numb the pain of missing you. And none of it worked, not for a second. I never stopped hurting. I never stopped wondering how you could leave me, when I couldn’t let go of you even for a second.”

“I’m sor—” I try to say again.

Dante grabs my throat from behind, cutting off the words and pinning my back against his broad chest.

“I don’t want to hear you say you’re sorry,” he hisses. “You need to show me here and now how sorry you are, if you want me to believe you.”

He’s not squeezing hard, but even the tiniest bit of pressure restricts the blood flow to my brain. My head is spinning.

“Nod if you understand,” he says.

I nod my head as much as I can, with the collar of his hand around my throat.

“Say, ‘Yes, Sir,’ ” he growls.

He relaxes his grip enough for me to respond.

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper.

“Turn around.”

I turn around to face him. I’m shaking so hard I can’t even look up at his face.

“Look at me,” he orders.

Slowly I raise my eyes to his. His eyes look like pure, dark ink. His face is brutal, handsome, and terrifying.

“Take off your dress,” he says.

Without hesitation, I slip down the straps—the one that’s already broken, and the one that’s whole. The thin silver material slides down my body, puddling on the floor at my feet.

Dante’s eyes burn over my naked flesh.

“Underwear, too,” he orders.

I remember how he made me strip like this in the woods a long time ago. I don’t think tonight is going to be like that night.

I slip down my lace thong and step out of it, still wearing my heels.

Dante lets his eyes roam over my fully naked body. I can see him taking in every inch of it, maybe comparing it with the memory he’s had in his mind all these years.

Then he strides past me, into the room. He sits down on the edge of the bed. I’m about to follow after him, but he barks, “Stay there.”

I stand there naked, as he slowly unlaces his dress shoes and takes them off. Then he strips off his socks.

With his big, thick fingers, he unbuttons his dress shirt, baring the muscle of his chest. I can see he added several more tattoos since the last time I saw him shirtless.

He pulls the dress shirt off, revealing his monstrous shoulders and arms, and his torso.

Oh my fucking god . . . his body is insane. He looks like he spent every minute since I last saw him torturing himself in the gym. I think he took every bit of his aggression out on his weight set.