Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Mara
Dante and Matthaeus both look up at me at the same time. I pull the sleeves of Dante’s sweater down and tuck my hands inside.
“You should go back to bed,” Dante says, getting to his feet.
“I mean it. I know what happens in the cellar.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been there. Once. Only for a few minutes.” That was enough.
“Why were you there?”
I shift my gaze to my bare feet. It’s why I’m cold. The floors are so cold here.
“Mara?”
I look back up at him. “There was a soldier once. Samuel. He was…nicer to me than he should have been, I guess.”
Dante and Matthaeus are both watching, and I am aware of the man on the phone or computer that I can’t see.
“He was my friend. Someone saw us holding hands once. It wasn’t anything, he was just...” I shake my head, force the tears back and swallow the lump in my throat. It’s a memory, that lump, with too much emotion balled up inside it. It’s one of the ones that makes it hard to breathe. “He was going to leave. He was going back home. But they didn’t let him go. Petrov had me tell him which hand he held mine with then made me watch when they sawed it off.” I will never forget that night. I look away. “Sometimes, I swear I can still hear that saw work through the bone over his screams.”
“Jesus Christ,” Matthaeus mutters and I give a small shake of my head to clear it.
“They took me out of there after that. I think they killed him then. I never saw him again. This was his,” I say, pulling the sleeve up and showing them a delicate gold bracelet. “He gave it to me and when Petrov found out, he decided to let me keep it. He wasn’t going to at first but then changed his mind. He said it was so I could remember our friendship. But really, it was so I remember what happens to my friends.”
Dante’s jaw is locked so tight I wonder if his teeth will crack. He walks toward me, takes my hand, and pushes the sleeve farther. He touches the thin gold chain.
“Take it off,” he says.
I shake my head.
He looks at me and I remember what he said last night. About the boy Dante being gone. This man now in his place. This man who would destroy my demons.
“The bracelet makes me remember him. Not what they did to him. And I want to remember him.”
He studies me for a long minute then finally nods. I wonder if he’s aware he’s still holding my hand.
“Do you remember Charlie?”
Matthaeus turns the phone around and I look at the face on the screen. The man is older than them, middle-aged, I guess. And he has a patch of gray in his hair. He’s smiling.
“Hello, Mara. It’s good to see you.”
I blink once, twice. Study the man, then shift my gaze up to Dante. I shake my head.
“It’s okay,” he says, and Matthaeus gets up, taking the laptop and the phone into another room.
“I’m hungry,” I tell Dante.
He nods, leads me to the table where I sit down in the same chair as last night. I wince when I do and touch my hip.
Dante doesn’t miss it. “Let me see it.”
“It’s fine. I just have to be more careful.”
“It’s not fine. It’s infected. If the ointment isn’t enough, we’ll need to get you something stronger.”
“You really can’t go to the cellar,” I say, changing topic.
“We’ll discuss the cellar after I get a look at the brand.”
“There’s nothing to see.”
“I’ll judge for myself.”
“You’ll listen to me if I let you look?”
“I’ll hear what you have to say.”
I study him, not sure, but it’s something. So, I stand and lift the sweater enough to expose the side of my hip. I look away when he bends closer, holding my breath so as not to gasp when he draws my panties down a little, enough to be able to peel the bandage away. I know it’s not meant in any way but to look at the damage, but I can’t help that flutter in my stomach.
“Does this hurt?” he asks, pressing the skin around it.
“A little.”
“We’ll get you something stronger today.” He puts the bandage back on and adjusts my panties over it.
I sit down more carefully and watch as he takes eggs out of the refrigerator and scrambles them along with several strips of bacon. My mouth waters at the smell and I watch him standing at the stove barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, doing this very domestic thing. I remember him last night when he stripped off his clothes. When he lay down beside me and it took all I had not to curl into him. To let him hold me. I have to be careful with him. Losing people hurts and I can’t let myself get to a place where it will hurt when I lose him. Because I will lose him. I know it.
He plates the food and sets it in front of me, then opens a drawer to hand me a fork and knife.
I start to eat as he pours coffee into a mug and sets it in front of me before refilling his own. I pour cream and three heaping teaspoons of sugar into it. Dante watches. I stir, then pick it up and drink a steaming sip, savoring the sweetness, this simple thing of eating breakfast. Of feeling hungry and wanting to eat.
“It’s sound proofed, the cellar,” I tell him as he watches me. “Elegant people upstairs drinking fancy drinks while downstairs men have their hands sawn off before they’re killed.” I eat a strip of bacon wondering if he finds it strange that I can talk about this while casually eating. Because it is strange. It says something about me. Something a little terrifying.
“Is that what the dreams are about?”
I stop chewing, look up at him. I remember him waking me once or twice. I always wonder how loud I am. If I scream in real life when I scream in my nightmares.
“No, not really,” I say. I don’t want to talk about that. “He took me to Red’s a few times. I met one of his sons. I don’t even think he found it strange that his father brought me there. That I was his property. I don’t think anyone did.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches and listens. I eat every bite, drink all of my coffee then sit back in my chair and put one hand over my belly.
“Would you like more?”
I shake my head, push my plate away and look up at him. “If you go, you’ll die.”
“You don’t know me very well.”
“You will.”
“Mara—”
“And if you die, then I’ll die.”
“It won’t come to that but if it does, Matthaeus will get you out. Get you home.”
“You said you’d listen if I let you look.”
“I am listening.”
“But you’re not hearing me. You’re gambling with your life and my life. Everyone who is involved is in danger.”
“Mara—”
“I want a gun.”
He furrows his eyebrows, chuckles. “You’re not getting a gun, sweetheart.”
“Stop calling me sweetheart!”
His mouth moves into an entertained grin. He opens it to speak but must think better of what he was going to say because he shakes his head and pauses. “Have you ever handled a gun?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “No.”
“Well, you’re not going to start now.” He’s humoring me. I see it.
“I need one to protect myself.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“Not when you’re dead, you won’t. And you’re going to be dead if you go to that meeting. It’s what he wants. For you to walk into his trap. He’s the master of setting traps.” I grip the edge of the table and lean toward him. “You don’t know him. I do.” I push my chair back and stand. “And I’m wasting my breath because you’re a liar. You were never going to listen to me.” I stalk toward the bedroom.
“Hey.” He comes after me, but I don’t stop. I’m almost to the bedroom when he catches my arm and spins me to face him. I crash into his chest then bounce backward. He steadies me, walking me until I’m up against the wall.
I look up at him, heart racing. I take my lower lip between my teeth and his gaze shifts to my mouth. For a moment, he just looks at me and it’s not with pity. It’s different. And there’s that flutter in my belly again.
It’s the way a man looks at a woman.
He clears his throat and shifts his gaze to my eyes. “I’m not a liar, Mara. I did listen.”
“But you never planned on taking what I’m saying seriously.” I try to tug free, slip away, but he tightens his grip, his jaw tensing. “Let go.”
“Stop fighting me.”
“Let me go and I’ll stop fighting.”
He chuckles at that, and for a moment, his expression is lighter. But when I wriggle again, he fixes his face, leaning closer. “I’m not going to let you go. Hear that and hear it well.” He dips his head down so his face is inches from mine. “Do you remember what I told you last night?” he asks more quietly so only I’ll hear him.
I stare up at him, feeling him shift his grip from my wrist to my hand. His thumb rubs the inside of my palm as his fingers weave together with mine. No one’s ever held my hand like this. Ever.
“Do you?” he asks.
I bite my lip, nod.
His gaze falls to my mouth again and he has to clear his throat before he continues. “I mean it. I’m going to kill Ivan Petrov for what he did to you.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I won’t be—”
“What if you don’t come back?” I feel my eyes mist.
He shifts one hand to my face, cupping it, his touch gentle. “I will. I promise.”
I find myself leaning into that touch. I want to believe him. I want so much to believe him. But I know the man he’s up against. “You can’t kill him. He’s unkillable.”
He comes closer and with his chest touching mine, he presses my back to the wall. I breathe in his aftershave. Feel his heart beat against his chest. Feel my nipples tighten in response to having him so close. It’s so strange. My body’s reactions are so different than they have ever been with any man ever.
I lick my lips and look up at him. The green of his eye has darkened, and his breathing is tight.
“I’m going to kill him,” he says, voice low and gravelly. He takes my hands in his interlacing his fingers with mine again. He leans his cheek close to mine so the scruff on his jaw scratches my face. His mouth is at my neck and when I turn my head a little, his lips graze me. He doesn’t pull back, not right away.
I suck in a breath and hold still when he brings his mouth to my ear, lips brushing the shell of it.
“I’m coming back to you. I promise you that,” he whispers, and his breath sends a shiver down my spine. I feel myself curl into him. It’s like a magnet, like we’re two magnets drawn to each other by forces outside of our control.
I lick my lips. Can he hear how hard my heart is beating?
He takes another deep breath in, and I wonder if he can smell his aftershave on me. If he knows I put it on. If he understands why I did it. He draws back then, and I look up at him.
“Do you trust me?” he asks after a long minute.
I nod. Because for some reason, I do. For some reason, I know if anyone can kill Ivan Petrov, it will be Dante Grigori.