Just need a minute,” she whispers to herself, trying to stop her hands from shaking. Her champagne colored gown, the one she’d saved three months to buy, has a torn strap and a stain she doesn’t want to identify. She can’t go back to the gala like this. Can’t let anyone see her like this. The Hawthorne family doesn’t hire victims.
They hire perfection. Emma Clare Winters has worked too hard to lose this job. four years as an event coordinator for the most powerful family in Boston. And she’s finally, finally close to being promoted to senior director. Close to affording her sister’s medical bills without drowning. Close to proving she’s more than the poor girl from Souy who got lucky.
She dabs at her lip with a paper towel, but the bleeding won’t stop. The supply closet door swings open. Emma’s breath catches. She turns, an apology already forming on her lips, but the words die in her throat. Dante Hawthorne stands in the doorway. Not just any Hawthorne. The Hawthorne, the eldest son, the one people whisper about in careful tones.
The one whose name appears in newspaper articles with words like alleged and investigation and no comment. 6′ 3 in of tailored perfection and controlled violence. His dark hair styled back. His gray eyes the color of a winter storm. Before we continue, please subscribe. My mom says I can’t reach 1,000 subscribers, so prove her wrong. Okay, let’s get back to it. He’s wearing a tuxedo that probably costs more than her car. His bow tie is slightly loosened.
The only sign he’s been at the gala all evening. He’s 38 years old, though. The sharp angles of his face make him look both older and younger, depending on the light. People say he took over the family’s business interests when he was 25 after his father died in circumstances no one talks about. Emma has worked exactly 43 events in his presence.
She’s spoken to him perhaps a dozen times, always professionally, always carefully. He’s never looked at her the way he’s looking at her now. His expression doesn’t change. That’s what terrifies her. His face remains absolutely calm as his eyes travel from her torn dress to her bruised face to her bleeding lip. Mr. Hawthorne, I she starts. Who? His voice is quiet, conversational even.
But something in that single word makes Emma’s spine straighten despite the pain radiating through her ribs. It’s nothing, she says quickly. I just I slipped in the parking garage. I’m fine. Really, I just needed a moment to clean up before Emma. Her name sounds different in his mouth. Lower. Dangerous.
He takes one step into the supply closet and closes the door behind him with a soft click that seems to echo. I’m going to ask you one more time. Who the [ __ ] did this to you? She’s never heard him curse before. Never seen his carefully controlled mask slip even a fraction. But something is slipping now. Something in the way his jaw tightens.
The way his hands, those elegant, dangerous hands, curl slowly into fists at his sides. I can’t, Emma whispers. Mr. Hawthorne, please. I can’t afford to lose this job. My sister, she’s sick and the bills. Answer the question. It was an accident, Emma. He moves closer and she should be afraid. She should be terrified.
This man has a reputation. But when he reaches out slowly, telegraphing his movement, and gently tilts her chin up with two fingers to examine her face in the light, his touch is impossibly gentle. That bruise on your cheekbone is from someone’s fist. The split lip is from a ring. Someone grabbed your arm hard enough to leave fingerprints. I can see them from here.
And judging by the way you’re breathing, you have at least one cracked rib, possibly two. Emma’s eyes widen. How do you I know what violence looks like. His thumb brushes her jawline so carefully she barely feels it. I know what it looks like when someone tries to take something that isn’t theirs. So, I’m going to ask you one final time, and I need you to understand that I’m not asking as your employer.
His gray eyes lock onto hers and she sees something blazing behind them that makes her breath catch. I’m asking as someone who is going to make this right. Who did this to you? The gentleness in his touch contrasts so sharply with the lethal promise in his voice that Emma feels something crack open inside her chest. All evening she’s been holding it together, holding it in.
But something about the way he’s looking at her, like she matters, like someone hurting her, is an unforgivable offense, makes the words tumble out. Tyler Delano, she breathes, and three of his friends. He He asked me to leave with him. I said no. He didn’t like that answer. Dante’s thumb stops moving. For exactly 3 seconds, he goes completely still.
Emma watches something dark and terrible slide behind his eyes. Something that makes her think of deep water and undertoes and things that pull you down where no one can hear you scream. Then he pulls out his phone. Marco, he says quietly when someone answers. I need you in the Westwing supply closet. Bring the first aid kit from my office.
The good one. A pause. No, now. He hangs up and looks at Emma again. really looks at her and for the first time in four years of working for the Hawthorne family, she sees something in his expression that isn’t perfectly controlled. It’s rage. Pure, cold, calculated rage. Tyler Delano is Marcus Delano’s nephew, Emma says quickly. She can hear the desperation in her own voice.
Marcus handles half the real estate development in Boston. He has connections, political connections. If you if this becomes a thing, Mr. Hawthorne, it’s already a thing. Dante’s voice is soft, almost gentle. The moment that little [ __ ] put his hands on you, it became a thing. I can’t ask you to. You’re not asking.
He slides his tuxedo jacket off his shoulders and drapes it carefully around her, covering her torn dress. The silk lining is still warm from his body heat, and it smells like expensive cologne and something darker. You’re going to sit down. You’re going to let Marco check those ribs and then you’re going to let me take you home.
Tomorrow you’re going to take as much time as you need with pay, but the gala is over for you, Mr. Hawthorne. Dante. He says it quietly, but there’s steel underneath. When I’m about to commit a felony on someone’s behalf, they get to use my first name. Emma’s breath catches. You’re not. You can’t. The door opens. A man with silver hair and sharp eyes walks in carrying a leather bag. This must be Marco.
He takes one look at Emma’s face and his expression goes carefully blank. Marco, Dante says without looking away from Emma. Check her ribs. Carefully. Of course. Marco’s voice is professional, but Emma catches the look he exchanges with Dante. a look that says he understands exactly what’s happened and exactly what’s about to happen next.
Dante steps back, giving Marco room to work, but he doesn’t leave. He leans against the supply shelves, arms crossed, watching with those storm gray eyes as Marco examines Emma with gentle, efficient movements. Two cracked ribs, Marco confirms after a moment. Bruising on the arms consistent with restraint. The facial injuries are superficial but painful.
She needs ice and rest. She needs justice, Dante says quietly. Emma’s hands start shaking again. Please, I’m begging you. Don’t make this worse. Tyler, he said if I told anyone, he’d make sure I never worked in this city again. He said he’d tell everyone I was lying. That I was trying to trap him. That her voice breaks.
I can’t lose everything because I said no to the wrong man. Dante pushes off the shelves and crosses back to her. He crouches down, bringing himself to her eye level. And Emma realizes this man, this powerful, dangerous man, is making himself smaller for her, making himself less threatening. Emma, he says, and there’s something in his voice she’s never heard before. Something almost tender.
Do you know how many events you’ve coordinated for my family? The question catches her off guard. I 43. 43. He confirms. Do you know how many times I’ve seen you smile at guests who were rude to you? Who snapped their fingers at you like you were a servant, who treated you like you were invisible? She doesn’t answer.
Every single time, Dante continues, you smiled. You were professional. You were perfect because that’s who you are. Someone who works three times as hard as everyone else because you think you have to earn respect instead of demanding it. His jaw tightens. But do you know what I noticed most? Emma shakes her head. You never looked at me with fear. Not once.
Every other person in my orbit is afraid of me on some level. They should be. But you. His lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smile. You looked at me like I was just another client. just another man in a suit. Like I was normal. You are normal, Emma whispers. No, Dante says softly. I’m really not. But you made me want to be.
And now someone has tried to take that fearlessness away from you. Someone tried to make you small. Someone tried to make you afraid. He reaches out and takes her hand, his grip warm and solid and steadier than anything she’s felt all night. I can’t fix what they did, but I can make sure they never do it again to you or anyone else.
How? The word comes out broken. Dante stands, still holding her hand. Do you trust me? I don’t know, Emma admits. Should I? Probably not. He helps her to her feet, one hand steady at her elbow. But I’m asking anyway. Do you trust me to handle this? Emma looks at him. really looks at him at the controlled fury in his eyes.
At the way his hand trembles slightly where it grips hers like he’s holding back something volcanic. At the careful gentleness in every movement despite the violence she can sense coiling underneath. Four years, 43 events, a dozen conversations. And in all that time, she’s never seen Dante Hawthorne be anything less than completely in control.
But he’s not in control now. Not quite. And that should terrify her. Instead, it makes her feel safe. Yes, she whispers. I trust you. Something shifts in his expression. Something that looks almost like relief. Then go home, he says quietly. Marco will drive you. Take tomorrow off. Take the whole week if you need it. Your sister’s medical bills. Consider them handled. Emma’s eyes widen. You can’t.
I can. I will. His thumb brushes over her knuckles just once. And Emma, when you come back to work, Tyler Delana will not be a problem. None of them will be. What are you going to do? Dante releases her hand and steps back. The gentleness slides off his face like a mask being removed. And what’s underneath makes Emma’s breath catch.
This is the man people whisper about. This is the man whose name appears in investigations. “What I should have done the first time someone in this city thought they could take what wasn’t theirs,” he says quietly. “I’m going to remind people why they’re afraid of me.” Emma doesn’t sleep that night.
Marco drives her home, a modest apartment in a decent neighborhood that she can barely afford even with her salary. He walks her to the door, checks every room with professional efficiency, and leaves his phone number on her kitchen counter. If you need anything, he says simply, “Anything at all, call.” Then he’s gone, and Emma is alone with her thoughts and the pain radiating through her ribs and the ghost of Dante Hawthorne’s touch on her hand.
She sits on her couch in the darkness, still wearing his tuxedo jacket, and tries to process what happened. Tyler Delano and his friends, the parking garage, Dante’s face when he saw her bleeding, the way he said, “Who the [ __ ] did this to you?” like it was the most important question in the world. Her phone rings at 2:00 in the morning. It’s her sister’s hospital.
For a moment, Emma’s heart stops, but the nurse is calling to tell her that the outstanding balance on Sarah’s account has been paid in full. All of it. Six figures just gone. And there’s a note in the file that all future treatment will be covered by an anonymous donor. Emma closes her eyes and lets out a shaking breath. Dante Hawthorne keeps his promises.
She wonders what other promises he’s keeping tonight. The answer comes at dawn. Emma is on her third cup of coffee, watching the sun rise over Boston when her phone buzzes with a news alert. She almost doesn’t read it. Almost. But the headline catches her eye. Eight men missing an overnight sweep. Authorities investigating.
Her hands start shaking as she reads. Tyler Delano, son of prominent businessman Marcus Delano, was reported missing early this morning along with seven other men. Security footage from multiple locations shows the men leaving various establishme
nts throughout the city between midnight and 3:00 a.m. None have been seen since. Police are investigating but admit they have few leads. The missing men were last seen in different parts of the city, suggesting no single incident. Families are pleading for information. Marcus Delano could not be reached for comment. Emma sets down her phone with trembling fingers. Eight
men. Eight. She knows knows with bone deep certainty that Tyler and his three friends are among them. Knows that the other four were probably witnesses or accompllices or people who knew and said nothing. She should be horrified. Should be calling the police. Should be doing something other than sitting here with Dante Hawthorne’s jacket around her shoulders, feeling safe for the first time since the parking garage.
But she doesn’t feel horrified. She feels protected. Her phone rings. Unknown number. Hello. Her voice comes out steadier than she expects. Emma. Dante’s voice is calm, conversational, like he’s calling about a catering order. I hope I didn’t wake you. I wasn’t sleeping. Good. A pause.
I wanted you to know you don’t need to worry anymore. The people who hurt you won’t be a problem. They won’t be anyone’s problem. Emma should ask what he did, should demand answers, should care about what happened to eight men between midnight and dawn. Instead, she asks, “Did they suffer?” The pause is longer this time. When Dante speaks again, his voice is softer, almost surprised.
Would it matter to you if they did? Yes. Emma surprises herself with the honesty. I want to know if they were afraid. If they felt a fraction of what they made me feel. They were afraid. Dante’s voice drops lower. They spent their last few hours understanding exactly what they’d done and exactly what happens to men who think they can take what isn’t theirs. They understood Emma. I made sure of it.
Something hot and sharp twists in Emma’s chest. It’s not horror. It’s satisfaction. Pure primal satisfaction. Thank you, she whispers. Don’t thank me. There’s something in his voice she can’t identify. I didn’t do it for gratitude. I did it because he stops, takes a breath. I did it because the thought of someone hurting you made me want to burn this entire city down.
Emma’s breath catches. Dante, come back to work when you’re ready, he says quietly. But Emma, when you do come back, I need to know. Are you afraid of me now? She should be. She should be terrified. But all she can think about is the gentleness of his hands on her face. The way he crouched down to her level, the careful control in every movement despite the rage burning underneath. “No,” she says.
“I’m not afraid of you.” “You should be.” But he sounds almost pleased. “Go rest. We’ll talk when you’re ready.” He hangs up before she can respond. Emma sits in the growing light wearing a killer’s jacket and realizes she’s never felt safer in her life. She goes back to work 3 days later. The Hawthorne estate is buzzing with activity.
Another event, another gala, another performance of elegance and power. Emma walks through the staff entrance wearing a high-necked blouse that covers the fading bruises. Her hair styled to hide the cut on her temple. She makes it exactly 40 ft before Marco intercepts her. Mr. Hawthorne wants to see you, he says simply. His office.
Now, Emma’s heart kicks against her ribs, the ones that are still healing. Is something wrong? Marco’s expression doesn’t change. He’s been waiting for you. Dante’s office is on the third floor of the main house, a room Emma has only entered a handful of times. oak paneling, leather furniture, floor to-seeiling windows overlooking the gardens. The kind of room that costs more to furnish than most people earn in a year.
He’s standing at the windows when she enters, hands in his pockets, looking out at the grounds. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like a sin, his dark hair perfectly styled. He looks exactly like what he is. Old money and new violence, elegance wrapped around something deadly. Close the door, he says without turning around.
Emma does. Her hands are shaking again, but not from fear. Dante turns and the look on his face makes her breath catch. It’s hungry, possessive, raw in a way she’s never seen him before. How are your ribs? He asks quietly. Healing. The bruises fading. Good. He crosses to his desk and picks up a folder.
Tyler Delano and his friends have been officially declared missing persons. The police have no leads. Marcus Delano has pulled all his political connections trying to find his nephew, but Dante’s lips curve into something cold. Some people just disappear. Tragic, really. Emma should feel guilty.
Should feel something other than this dark satisfaction curling in her chest. Where are they? She asks instead. Dante sets down the folder and looks at her. Really? Looks at her. Does it matter? I want to know. Why? Because I need to know if I should feel guilty for being glad they’re gone. Emma lifts her chin despite the tremor in her voice.
I need to know if that makes me a bad person. Dante crosses the distance between them in three strides. He stops inches away, close enough that she can smell his cologne. close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “They’re alive,” he says quietly. “Barely, they’re in places where people pay very well to ensure certain individuals never resurface.
Places where they’ll spend every day understanding what they did and why they can never do it again.” His hand comes up slowly, telegraphing the movement, and cups her jaw with impossible gentleness. Does that make you feel guilty, Emma? She should say yes. Should be horrified. Should push him away and call the police and do the right thing. Instead, she leans into his touch. No, she whispers.
It makes me feel safe. Something blazes in Dante’s eyes. Dangerous answer. Why? Because now I know what you taste like when you’re not afraid. His thumb brushes her lower lip. the one that’s finally stopped bleeding. And that’s going to be a problem. Emma’s heart is pounding so hard she’s sure he can hear it.
What kind of problem? The kind where I can’t let you go. His voice drops lower. The kind where I want to keep you close and make sure no one ever touches you again. The kind where I’m willing to make eight men disappear and not lose a single night’s sleep if it means you look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.
How am I looking at you? Like I’m not a monster. His forehead drops to rest against hers and Emma feels the careful control in every line of his body. Like I’m something worth trusting. You are. Emma breathes. To me you are. Dante makes a sound low in his throat. Something between a laugh and a growl. Emma, I need you to understand something.
What I did, what I’m capable of. Most people would run screaming. I’m not running. You should be. But I’m not. She reaches up and covers his hand with hers, pressing his palm more firmly against her face. You asked if I was afraid of you. I’m not. I’m afraid of what happens when you let me go. I’m not letting you go. The words come out fierce, final. Not now, not ever.
But you need to understand what that means. You need to understand who I am. I know who you are. No. Dante pulls back just enough to look at her properly. You know the surface. You know the carefully constructed facade. But Emma, I run half the illegal operations in this city. I make people disappear. I hurt people who cross me.
I’m not a good man. You were good to me. Because you matter. His jaw tightens because the thought of you being hurt made me want to commit murder. Because I’ve spent four years watching you from across crowded rooms and wondering what you’d feel like in my arms.
And now that I know you’re not afraid of me, I’m never going to be able to let that go. Emma’s breath catches. Four years. 4 years. His hand slides from her jaw to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been watching you smile at everyone else? Watching you be professional and perfect and completely unaware that I was losing my mind every time you said my name. Dante, I made eight men disappear for you, Emma.
His voice is rough now, the control fraying at the edges. And I’d do it again. I’d do worse. I’d burn this entire city down if it meant keeping you safe. So, before this goes any further, I need you to tell me, can you live with that? Can you live with what I am? Emma looks at him at the desperation in his eyes.
At the careful way he’s holding her, like she’s something precious and breakable despite the violence she knows he’s capable of. She thinks about Tyler Delano and his friends, about the parking garage, about bleeding in a supply closet and feeling small and afraid and powerless.
She thinks about Dante’s gentle hands on her face, about Marco’s phone number on her kitchen counter, about her sister’s medical bills being paid in full. She thinks about feeling safe. “Yes,” she whispers. “I can live with that.” Dante’s eyes close. His grip on her neck tightens just slightly. Don’t say that unless you mean it. I mean it. Emma slides her hands up his chest, feeling his heart pounding under her palms.
I mean it because you’re the first person who made them pay. The first person who looked at me and decided I was worth protecting. Worth avenging. Worth. She doesn’t get to finish because Dante kisses her. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s four years of restraint shattering all at once. His mouth claiming hers with a hunger that makes her knees weak.
One hand stays tangled in her hair while the other wraps around her waist, pulling her against him like he’s afraid she’ll disappear. Emma kisses him back with equal desperation, her fingers curling into his perfectly pressed shirt, and something inside her chest cracks wide open. This is what safety feels like. This is what being claimed feels like.
This is what it feels like to belong to someone who will burn the world down to protect you. When they finally break apart, both breathing hard, Dante rests his forehead against hers again. Mine, he breathes. Say it. Yours. Emma doesn’t hesitate. I’m yours. And I’m yours. His voice is fierce. every dark, violent, dangerous part of me. Yours. No one touches you again. No one hurts you.
No one even looks at you wrong without answering to me. Understood. Understood. Good. He pulls back just enough to look at her. And there’s something vulnerable in his eyes now. Something almost uncertain. I know this is fast. I know this is probably insane. But Emma, I need you to know this isn’t just about what happened. This isn’t just about protecting you. I’ve wanted this.
Wanted you for years. And now that I have you, I’m not letting go. Emma feels tears prick her eyes. Promise? I promise. He kisses her forehead, her temple, her cheek. I promise I’ll keep you safe. I promise I’ll take care of you. I promise no one will ever make you feel small or afraid again. What about my job? Keep it. Quit it.
I don’t care. His thumb brushes away a tear she didn’t realize had fallen. Stay with the company or don’t. Move into my house or keep your apartment. I don’t care about any of that. I just care that you’re mine. I want to keep working, Emma says after a moment. I want to keep my apartment.
I want I want to figure this out together without you making all the decisions for me. Dante’s smile is soft, almost tender. See, this is why you’re dangerous. Most people in my life just say yes. I’m not most people. No. He kisses her again, softer this time. You’re absolutely not.
3 months later, Emma walks into her sister’s hospital room to find Sarah sitting up in bed looking better than she has in years. The doctors say I’m in remission, Sarah says, her eyes bright with tears. Full remission, Emma. Because of those new treatments, because of that anonymous donor who paid for everything. Emma sits down on the edge of the bed and takes her sister’s hand.
She’s wearing a ring on her left hand now, a stunning emerald surrounded by diamonds. Dante proposed 6 weeks ago in his office with the same intensity he brings to everything else. I’m so glad, Emma says honestly. You deserve it. Who is he? Sarah asks suddenly. The donor. Do you know? Emma thinks about Dante. About the way he holds her at night like she’s something precious.
About the way he’s restructured his entire life to include her in it. About the business deals he’s walked away from because she asked. about the violence he’s capable of and the gentleness he shows only her. “Yes,” she says simply. “I know him.” “Is he a good man?” Emma smiles. “He’s my man. That’s all that matters. The wedding is small, private, just family and close friends at the Hawthorne estate in the gardens where Emma has coordinated dozens of events, but never imagined she’d have her own.
” Dante waits for her at the end of a flower lined aisle, wearing a black suit and looking at her like she’s the only person in the world. When she reaches him, he takes her hands and whispers low enough that only she can hear. Last chance to run. Emma squeezes his hands, “I’m exactly where I want to be.
With a killer. With the man who made me feel safe again.” She lifts her chin. With the man who made eight people disappear because they hurt me. With the man who paid my sister’s medical bills and asks my opinion before making major decisions and holds me like I’m precious. Yes, Dante. With you. His eyes close briefly. When they open again, they’re blazing.
Then let’s make this official. The ceremony is quick, traditional, beautiful. And when the officient pronounces them married, Dante kisses her like he’s sealing a promise written in blood and fire. At the reception, Marcus Delano arrives uninvited. Emma sees him first, a heavy set man with cold eyes and expensive clothes, flanked by two bodyguards.
He walks straight up to their table with the confidence of someone used to getting what he wants. “Hawthorne,” he says flatly. “We need to talk.” Dante sets down his champagne glass with careful precision. We don’t. My nephew is gone. Dante’s voice is flat, cold. And before you make whatever threat you came here to make, you should understand something. This is my wedding day.
This is my wife. He reaches over and takes Emma’s hand, his grip possessive. And if you ruin even one moment of it, Marcus, you’ll join Tyler wherever he is. Marcus’ face goes red. You can’t just I can. Dante stands, still holding Emma’s hand. I did, and I’ll do it again to anyone who threatens what’s mine, so I suggest you leave now before I forget that I’m trying to be civilized for Emma’s sake.
The bodyguards reach for their weapons, but Marco appears seemingly from nowhere, flanked by six more men. The message is clear. This ends badly for Marcus if he pushes. Marcus looks at Emma at Dante. At the small army of men ready to defend their boss. This isn’t over, he says finally. Yes, Dante says quietly. It is. You just don’t know it yet. Marcus leaves and Emma realizes she’s not afraid.
Not of him, not of any of it. Because she’s sitting next to a man who will make people disappear to protect her. A man who just publicly claimed her in front of one of his enemies. A man who kisses her like she’s oxygen. Sorry, Dante says quietly after Marcus is gone. I know that wasn’t the wedding you imagined. No.
Emma leans into him, feeling his arm wrap around her waist. It was better because now everyone knows I’m yours and you’re mine, and nothing is going to change that. Dante’s laugh is low and dark. Dangerous woman. I learned from the best. He kisses her temple. Dance with me.
They dance as the sun sets over Boston and Emma thinks about how far she’s come. From a girl in a supply closet, bleeding and afraid to a woman in a wedding dress, protected and claimed and cherished. Dante pulls her closer, his hand spled possessive on her lower back. What are you thinking? He murmurs against her hair. Emma smiles. That I would do it again. Do what? Say no to Tyler Delano.
She looks up at Dante, at this beautiful, dangerous man who made eight people disappear for her. Because it led me here to you. Dante’s eyes darken. Don’t say things like that. Why not? Because it makes me want to find Marcus Delano and make him disappear, too. But he’s smiling when he says it. You’re going to be the death of me, Emma Hawthorne. Probably.
She kisses him right there in front of everyone. But what a way to go. Dante laughs. Really laughs. And Emma realizes this is what safety feels like. Not the absence of danger, but the presence of someone who will face the danger for you. Someone who will burn the world down to keep you safe. Someone who will ask, “Who the [ __ ] did this to you?” and mean it.
Someone who will make eight men disappear by morning and lose no sleep over it. Someone who is hers. And as they dance under the fading light, Emma Clare Hawthorne, formerly Winters, forever protected, knows she’s exactly where she belongs. In the arms of a monster who chose to be gentle. With a killer who taught her it’s okay to not always be afraid. with the man who made her feel safe again.
Even if his methods would make most people run screaming, she’s not running.