When Heroes Fall (Anti-Heroes in Love 1)

But I could learn from the people I respected, and I’d come to understand I respected him. His candor and loyalty, his complete lack of fear around anything emotional or physical. He took on the chaos of life head-on and laughed while he did it.

I hoped that whatever happened, I’d be able to ingest a little of that before our time was done.

“Aren’t you going to ask about my breakdown?” I asked, my own self-hatred peeking through again.

He scowled then sighed, turning me around with one hand as he reached for the shampoo with the other. “No. If you want to share, you can. But I think I have a few ideas. The adrenaline crash alone would justify it. I’m just happy to have shared it with you. Being able to be there for you is a privilege I have the feeling you don’t afford to many people.”

When his strong fingers began to knead my scalp, the citrus scent of him intensified by the product he worked into my hair, I groaned raggedly. “That feels so good.”

“There are many things I can and will make you feel,” he promised darkly. “Now that I’ve had you, I won’t let you go until I’ve had my fill, and I have a feeling that will take a very long time.”

I closed my eyes as he pulled me back against his body, the burgeoning swell of his shaft pressing against my butt cheeks. When he tipped my head back on his shoulder to let the water carry away the suds, and one of his calloused hands followed the path down the front of my naked body, I gave myself permission to surrender once again to sensation.

Because I knew, even if Dante didn’t, that no fire ever burned eternally, and one as hot as the inferno between us would burn out before we knew it.

So I’d enjoy it––the pleasure, the bravery, the discovery––while I could.

And hope that after everything, I wouldn’t be bitter the way I was after Daniel left me. I’d be changed for the better from letting Dante storm past the walls I’d let no one behind before.

ELENA

I’d almost assumed Dante would try to keep me from work the following morning because it was something Daniel might have done and even Seamus.

But he didn’t.

When I’d woken up in my bed alone because I’d insisted on it after showering with Dante, needing the space to shore up the walls around my heart, I’d prepared to fight him about my need to work despite the chaos of the previous day. I was focused on it to the exclusion of all else as I showered again and readied myself for the day with my arsenal of Chanel cosmetics.

It was easier to concentrate on a possible confrontation than it was to acknowledge the monumental way our relationship had shifted last night.

The monumental way I had shifted.

I’d entered the living room dressed in my favorite classic black Dolce & Gabbana high-waisted pencil skirt and slightly sheer white silk blouse, my hair pinned back in an artfully loose bun, my six-inch Valentino pumps at my feet. I wore my well-groomed professionalism the way knights had worn their suits of armor, ready to do battle with whatever might face me during the day.

And I was ready to fight Dante about my right to go to work.

“I’m going in to the office this morning,” I’d stated strongly right off, holding my Prada purse in front of me like a shield.

Dante lounged at the patio table through the open French doors even though it was almost November and the wind was icy, wearing a black cashmere sweater over a white button-up. He looked quintessentially European, the Italian language newspaper in one hand and a cup of espresso in the other.

He’d looked over at me with slightly raised brows and inclined his head slowly, addressing me as if I was an infant. “Yes, okay. It is a weekday.”

I blinked. “Well, yes. So, I have to work.”

He blinked right back, head cocked as he narrowed his eyes at me, assessing me. “Yes, that is typically how it happens.”

I nodded curtly, thrown off by his easy acceptance. “Okay, I’m leaving, then.”

“Buona giornata,” he called mildly as he turned back to his newspaper.

I blinked at the back of his head, struggling with the feeling pushing up through the cage of my ribs.

It took me a moment to identify it as I made my way to the elevator.

Disappointment.

I’d expected him to fight me about it so I could find him wanting, roast him for being misogynistic like so many Italian men could be, wanting to keep me in the home under his thumb and assuming I’d accept that just because we’d had intercourse.

But also, an even smaller voice in the depths of my lockdown soul whispered that I wanted him to fight me about it because it would show that he cared.