Too Late: The Innocent Traitor I Destroyed

I sat on the cold linoleum of my dilapidated apartment, contorting my body in a desperate attempt to bandage my own back.

The burns were a mottled landscape of raw flesh, blistering and weeping serum. I couldn't reach the worst of it.

With a trembling hand, I poured cheap vodka over the wounds and bit down hard on a folded towel, stifling the scream that clawed at my throat.

The door didn't just open; it exploded inward.

The lock splintered with a sharp crack. Dante stood in the frame, his chest heaving, his face smeared with soot and unadulterated rage. He looked wild, feral.

He strode in, kicking aside a pile of laundry without breaking stride. He saw the vodka bottle. He saw the burn ointment. Then, his gaze landed on my back.

He froze.

For a second, the monster's mask slipped. His eyes widened, pupils dilating until they were black pools, taking in the raw, mangled skin across my shoulder blades.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice shaking with a tremor I hadn't heard before.

I pulled my shirt up quickly, hissing as the fabric stuck to the oozing wounds.

"It's nothing," I said, turning to face him.

"Don't lie to me, Elena! Where did you get those burns?"

I leaned against the counter, forcing a smirk onto my face. It was the only weapon I had left against his scrutiny.

"Prison fight," I lied, my voice dripping with false nonchalance. "A girl in the showers didn't like the way I looked at her. Or maybe it was from a lover. I forget. It happens when you're popular."

His jaw clenched so hard I thought a tooth might crack. "A lover?"

I shrugged, ignoring the tearing pain in my skin. "You think you're the only one who gets to have fun, Dante? Prison gets lonely."

It was the cruelest thing I could say. I was painting myself as a whore to disgust him, to make sure he never looked close enough to see the truth—that I had walked through fire for him.

He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed my throat. His hand was large, warm, and calloused. He squeezed, cutting off my air with terrifying precision.

"You disgust me," he snarled, his face inches from mine. "I thought... for a second, I thought you were in the fire. I thought you pulled me out."

I laughed, a choked, raspy sound against his palm.

"Me? Risk my life for you? After everything you've done to me? I ran, Dante. I saw the fire and I ran. I only care about myself. Just like I only cared about myself when I killed your mother."

His grip tightened. I saw the shards of heartbreak fracture his anger. He wanted me to be innocent. But I wouldn't let him.

"I hate you," he whispered against my lips, the words feeling like a curse.

"Good," I wheezed.

He released me, shoving me back against the counter. I slid down, gasping for air as oxygen rushed back into my burning lungs. He looked at me one last time, with absolute revulsion, and stormed out.

The next day, Sofia called. She needed a driver.

I arrived at the estate in my rusted sedan. She was waiting at the end of the long driveway. Dante was standing on the porch, watching like a sentinel.

Sofia walked toward the car. As I put it in gear to pull forward, she suddenly threw herself onto the hood.

She screamed—a piercing, theatrical shriek—and rolled onto the gravel in a heap.

From the porch, Dante roared.

It was a sound of pure, animalistic trauma. To him, it must have looked like history repeating itself—the woman he loved, struck down by a vehicle, just like his mother. The flashback must have seized him entirely.

He didn't run to her. He ran to his SUV.

He revved the engine, the armored vehicle roaring like a tank. I watched in the rearview mirror as he barreled toward me. He wasn't Dante anymore. He was an executioner.

I didn't try to move. I gripped the steering wheel and closed my eyes.

The impact was like a bomb going off.

Metal screamed. Glass exploded inward in a glittering shower. My car folded like paper against the force of his rage. The airbag deployed, punching me in the face, but not before I felt my ribs snap with a sickening crunch. The car spun and slammed into a tree.

Silence followed.

I hung in the wreckage, blood dripping into my eyes. Through the shattered windshield, I saw Dante sitting in his SUV, staring at me, his chest heaving.

He didn't look horrified.

He looked satisfied.