I give Dino a cruel smile, even as my internal world tilts on its axis. “There. You got it. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now it’s your turn to keep your promise. I killed for you. You owe me. So go and do your fucking job.” My throat feels raw as I say it. Like I’ve been screaming for hours without relenting.
“But fuck, Viola…I love you,” Dino chokes, blue eyes glistening wet like he’s about to fucking cry. “We all do.”
The darkness sucks me down and I let it.
“I never said it,” I say. “I’ve never once said I love you. You were just a bit of fun. A distraction for a while.”
My words sound empty as I say them. Dino’s blue eyes seem shut down, closing off to me as he takes them in.
It’s true, I craved them. But I used them to keep my monster in check. And I can be whimsical at times. I go where my stone-cold heart takes me. But all roads lead to torment eventually. To quote Dante—Nothing lasts. Dreams end. People fucking die. Seeing Lorcan on that hospital bed was a wake-up call. My monster needs other monsters to handle it. If I stay with the boys, I will kill them in the end.
Not Dante.
Not their families.
Me.
Lorcan, Dino, and even Jude aren’t demons…even if they pretend to be. They’re saints, sinners at most.
Only the demons can love me.
And only I can deal with the Devil alone.
After Lorcan and Dino leave,I shower and change, and take a handful of painkillers. My head is no longer killing me, but my thigh has started throbbing again. My insides are a mess too. Dino shot a regretful look at me over his shoulder as he left. Guilt is not something I usually have to deal with, so call me confused at the shitty feeling rampaging through my gut right now.
I did the right thing, letting them go. I’m no good for them. Lorcan was nearly killed. Jude is in prison. All because of me.
So why do I feel so cold and empty?
I’m just tired. I need to sleep more.
The sun has set and it’s past midnight when I finally head to Dante’s room. I must have been out of it most of the day. I don’t knock. I barge in. Dante is shirtless wearing only a pair of sweats and fingerless training gloves doing fucking sit-ups or something that requires steel-hard abs.
He stops working his body—already slick with sweat—as soon as he sees me and rests back on one arm, using the other to bring his water bottle to his lips. He jerks his chin up. “Close the door, you’re letting the heat in.”
All the windows are open, making his room into a frigid cell. I forgot that Dante loves the cold. It makes him feel alive, he once told me. I guess you have to go to extreme lengths when you’re virtually dead on the inside.
I perch on the end of his bed, noting the white patch of gauze on his chest, above his pec where the wing tip of the butterfly tattoo is.
“So, I didn’t dream it? I really did bite a hole in your chest?”
Dante shrugs, all super languid as he lounges on the floor. Thank fuck. I couldn’t take another cry baby. “You were upset and needed an outlet,” he says.
“You don’t appear to be upset about it.”
“Better my chest than my balls.”
He’s got a point.
“How bad is it?”
“A few teeth marks. Will probably scar.” He takes a sip of his water. “I’ve had worse.”
“How many is that now?” I ask him. Back when we were training, we used to keep tabs on how many times we scarred each other. At the last count I was winning.
His lips curl up into a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but he looks like he’s proud. “Seven,” he says.
I have three from Dante. No more than that. One on my shoulder where he slipped a knife in when I tackled him. One on my arm where he sliced me with a piece of wood while sparring. And one on my middle finger where he snapped it and it had to be pinned back together with metal parts. To this day, I can’t straighten it properly. I’ve blamed Dante for my crappy aim compared to him with a gun since then.