Twisted Loyalty

Chapter 19: Unspoken

Sienna

The house is eerily quiet as I sit on the edge of the bed, my fingers twisting nervously in my lap. I keep glancing at the clock on the wall, watching the minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness. Dante had been gone for hours, and the longer I waited, the more the nervous energy built up inside me. I tried to distract myself—folding the clothes we'd bought, flipping through a book I found on the nightstand—but nothing worked.

My thoughts keep drifting back to him. To where he might be, to what he might be doing. I don't know why the uncertainty bothers me so much, but it does. Something in the pit of my stomach churns with unease, and I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. It makes no sense—I know Dante can handle himself. He's capable, ruthless even, and I've seen that side of him enough to know he's dangerous when he needs to be. But still, the nervousness lingers.

Why am I so worried? I shake the thought away, trying to brush off the anxiety. I shouldn't care this much. But the truth is, I do, and I hate that I can't explain it.

Finally, I hear the low rumble of a car outside. My heart skips a beat, and I shoot up from the bed, rushing to the window. Sure enough, Dante's car pulls up, the headlights cutting through the darkness as it comes to a stop.

The house is quiet, the stillness almost suffocating as I bolt down the stairs. Each step I take echoes in the silence, my breath catching in my throat as I reach the bottom. The front door swings open just as I do, and for a split second, I freeze.

Dante steps inside, his figure cutting a sharp silhouette against the dim light spilling in from the foyer. And then I see him—really see him. His shirt is torn and streaked with blood, his skin smeared with dirt and grime. His knuckles are raw, swollen, coated in drying blood, and I can tell by the rigid set of his shoulders that tonight was brutal. His face, usually so calm and controlled, looks haunted, worn down in a way that sends a chill through me.

He looks wrecked.

I grip the banister, unable to move as I take in the sight of him. The blood, the dirt—it's not his. I know it isn't. But the exhaustion in his eyes, the heaviness clinging to his entire body, tells me he's been through something dark. Something violent.

My instinct is to run to him, to reach out, but I'm frozen, my heart thudding in my chest as a strange mixture of fear and concern wraps around me like a vice. I want to ask him what happened, but I can't seem to find my voice.

Dante lifts his head, and when our eyes meet, everything else fades away. His dark, intense gaze locks onto mine, and for a long moment, he just stands there, staring at me. His chest rises and falls with heavy, labored breaths, and I can see it—whatever he's carrying inside him, it's weighing him down. This isn't just physical exhaustion. It's something deeper, something darker.

Without a word, he starts walking toward me, his steps slow and deliberate. There's something almost predatory about the way he moves, but there's no malice in his eyes. He's not angry. He's just... broken. His face is hard, his jaw clenched, but beneath the surface, I can see the cracks. He looks like a man teetering on the edge, barely holding himself together.

I remain rooted to the spot, my pulse hammering in my ears as he closes the distance between us. He stops directly in front of me, towering over me, his presence overwhelming. His eyes never leave mine, and I can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down between us.

And then, without warning, he pulls me into his arms.

His embrace is fierce, almost desperate, his arms wrapping around me tightly, crushing me against his chest. For a moment, I can't move, can't breathe—shocked by the suddenness of it, by the intensity. His body is tense, his muscles taut beneath the blood-streaked fabric of his shirt. He holds me like I'm the only thing keeping him from falling apart, his face buried in my hair, his breaths coming in sharp, uneven bursts.