Page 41 of Freed
He steps farther into the church, gun still in his hand. His gaze never leaves mine.
“You want to hate me?” he says. “Fine. Hate me. But you do not get to stand in front of that altar and give yourself tohim.”
Dante’s body is a wall in front of me. “She is not going anywhere with you.”
Lorenzo doesn’t even look at him. He’s looking only at me.
“Choose.”
The word hits like a slap.
My fingers dig into Dante’s sleeve. “Lorenzo, please?—”
“Choose,” he repeats, colder this time. “You walk to me, or Teresa dies in front of all these people. And she won’t be the last.”
A broken sound catches in my throat.
I look at Teresa. Her face is pale, but her chin is lifted, her eyes fierce even now. I look at Dante, at the murderous furytightening every line of his face. At the guests crouched in the pews. At the flowers. The candles. The altar waiting only a few feet away.
This is what the dread was. Not nerves or fear of marriage.
This.
I can barely breathe. “Don’t make me do this.”
Lorenzo’s voice drops lower. “Then don’t make me prove I mean it.”
Dante turns his head just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark with rage and something sharper beneath it.
“Birdie,” he says using my real name, “don’t.”
My whole body shakes. I want to stay. God, I want to stay. But Teresa gives the smallest shake of her head, and I understand what she’s telling me.
Don’t let him kill for you.
My hand tightens once around Dante’s.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
His expression changes. It’s not anger, but something worse.
No, his eyes seem to say.No.
I let go of him anyway. Then I step around him. My bouquet slips from my fingers and hits the floor, white petals scattering across the stone. My veil trails behind me like surrender. The church watches in horrified silence as I walk away from the altar and toward the man who came for me with violence in his hands.
Lorenzo doesn’t move.
He just waits.
When I finally stop in front of him, my heart is beating so hard I feel sick. Up close, he smells like gunpowder and cold air and the kind of rage that devours everything it touches.
“Let her go,” I whisper, glancing toward Teresa.
His eyes drag over my face, over the veil, the dress, the life Iwas seconds away from stepping into. Then, without looking away from me, he jerks his chin.
His men release Teresa. She stumbles free into the arms of one of Dante’s people, shaken but unharmed.
Relief nearly buckles my knees.
