The blackness was total. Absolute. My panicked whisper, "They're back," was swallowed by the dark.
I didn't see him move. I felt him.
One second, he was across the room. The next, he was right beside me. His hand clamped around my arm, pulling me down, hard and fast. I hit the floor with a gasp, the teddy bear crushed between our bodies. He covered me with his own body, a solid shield of muscle and heat, his voice a low, urgent hiss in my ear.
"Where? Did you see them?"
"N-no," I stammered, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. "The lights... they went out, and..."
Just then, the world outside flashed white. A brilliant, blinding flash of lightning illuminated the room for a single, stark second. I saw the rain lashing against the windows, the trees bending in the wind. And I saw Dante's face above mine, his eyes wide and wild, his jaw tight with lethal focus.
Then, the darkness returned, followed by a crack of thunder so loud it shook the entire house.
He understood.
He let out a slow, controlled breath. "It's the storm, Izzy," he said, his voice still low, but the sharp, urgent edge was gone. "The storm knocked out the power."
The relief was so sudden, so overwhelming, that a choked sob escaped my lips. I felt like an idiot. A terrified child.
He didn't move away. He stayed there, shielding me, until the trembling in my body started to subside.
"It's cold," he finally said. "We need a fire."
He stood up, pulling me with him. In the darkness, he took my hand, his grip firm and steady, and led me out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
He didn't let go until we were in front of the huge stone fireplace in the living room. I watched his silhouette as he knelt, the sound of crackling wood and the scent of smoke slowly filling the room. A moment later, flames sparked to life, pushing back the oppressive darkness and casting a warm, flickering glow across his face.
I sat on the thick rug, hugging Hector to my chest. He sat on the floor on the other side of the hearth, the firelight dancing in his eyes, turning them to liquid gold.
The storm raged outside, but in here, inside our small circle of light, the world felt still. Safe.
I watched the man in the firelight. He wasn't the cold soldier or the punishing lover. He was just... a man. Haunted and quiet.
"My mother used to love storms," I said, the words coming out in a whisper. "She said they were the world's way of washing itself clean."
"Dante?" I asked, my voice soft. "Can I ask you a personal question?"
He didn't look at me, his eyes fixed on the fire. "Probably not a good idea."
"Please," I whispered.
He was silent for a long moment. Then he gave a short, barely perceptible nod.
"Have you ever loved someone?"
The question hung in the air between us. He was quiet for so long I thought he would ignore it.
Then, he spoke. His voice was a low, rough thing, more real than I'd ever heard it.
"My parents loved each other," he said, his eyes still fixed on the fire. "It was... the only real thing in a world full of lies. A love worth dying for." He paused, and his next words sent a shiver down my spine. "A love worth killing for."
He finally turned his head, his eyes finding mine across the flames. The hunger was back, but this time it was mixed with a deep, aching pain.
"You shouldn't like me, Izzy," he warned, his voice a low, broken growl. "I am not the man you think I am."
His words didn't scare me. They broke my heart.
He was trying to protect me from himself.
Slowly, I stood up. I walked around the fire, my steps silent on the rug, and knelt beside him. He flinched, but didn't move away.
"Maybe you're wrong," I whispered, my breath ghosting against his skin.
A long, tense silence. "About what?" he finally ground out.
"About the man you think you are."
My words, so quiet, seemed to shatter him.
He spun around on the floor, his movements sudden and desperate, and grabbed my hand. His grip wasn't punishing. It was pleading.
He looked up at me, his face a raw, agonized portrait of conflict and need. The firelight danced in his tortured eyes.
"What are you doing to me?" he asked, his voice a broken, ragged growl. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation. A surrender.
The final confession that he wasn't in control anymore.
I was.