Healing His Wounds

Cassandra woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains.

She lay still for a moment, her body heavy with exhaustion, her mind foggy with sleep. The events of the night before felt like a dream—the explosion, the fire, the fear. But the ache in her muscles and the bandage on her arm told her it was real.

She turned her head. Dante was beside her, still asleep. His face was pale, his body wrapped in bandages. The gash on his forehead had been stitched. The wound on his arm was covered in gauze. He looked broken. Vulnerable.

She reached out, her fingers tracing his jaw.

"I love you," she whispered.

---

The doctor arrived an hour later.

He was an old man—gray-haired, kind-eyed—one of Dante's trusted contacts. He examined Dante first, checking his wounds, changing his bandages, monitoring his vitals.

"The wounds are healing," he said. "But he needs rest. No stress. No exertion."

Cassandra nodded. She followed the doctor to the door, her hand on his arm.

"What can I do?" she asked. "How can I help him?"

The doctor smiled. "Keep him calm. Keep him fed. Keep him loved."

---

Cassandra spent the day tending to Dante.

She changed his bandages—carefully, gently, her fingers trembling as she unwound the old gauze and wrapped new ones around his wounds. She brought him food—soup, bread, tea—and sat beside him while he ate, making sure he finished every bite.

She talked to him—about nothing and everything. About the baby. About the future. About the life they were going to build together.

He listened. He smiled. He held her hand.

---

That evening, Dante finally opened up.

They were sitting on the bed, the sunlight fading outside the window. Cassandra was curled against his side, her head on his shoulder.

"I was so scared," he said quietly. "When the house exploded—when I thought I'd lost you—I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I just—I just ran."

"You saved me," she whispered.

"I should have protected you better."

"You did protect me. You shielded me with your body. You almost died."

"I would die for you." His voice cracked. "I would die for you and the baby without hesitation."

She looked up at him. Her eyes were wet.

"I don't want you to die for me," she said. "I want you to live for me. For us."

---

He pulled her into his arms.

His face was buried in her hair. His body was shaking.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for everything. For dragging you into this. For putting you in danger. For not being enough."

"You are enough." She pulled back, her hands cupping his face. "You are more than enough. You're everything."

He stared at her. His eyes were red, swollen.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

---

That night, they sat together by the window, watching the stars.

Dante's arm was wrapped around her. Her head rested on his shoulder. The baby kicked between them—strong, steady.

"We're going to find her," Dante said quietly. "We're going to stop her. And then we're going to build a life together—a real life, away from all of this."

Cassandra closed her eyes. "I believe you."

---

The next morning, Marco arrived with news.

He was pale, his arm in a sling, his face grim. He'd been up all night, tracking leads, following trails, searching for Elena.

"I found something," he said. "A safe house. In the countryside. It's where she's been hiding."

Dante stood. His jaw was tight. His eyes were blazing.

"Then we go. Tonight."

Dante told Cassandra about Marco's discovery that morning.

They were sitting in the small kitchen of the secondary safe house—a modest apartment on the other side of the city, hidden in a quiet neighborhood where no one would think to look. Cassandra was eating breakfast, her hand resting on her stomach, the baby kicking softly against her palm.

Dante sat across from her, his coffee untouched, his jaw tight.

"Marco found her," he said quietly. "Elena. She's been hiding in a safe house in the countryside. We're going after her tonight."

Cassandra set down her fork. "I'm coming with you."

"No."

"Yes."

"Cassandra—"

"I'm not asking." She met his eyes. "I'm telling you. I'm coming."

The argument that followed was raw.

Dante stood, pacing the small kitchen, his hands running through his hair. He told her it was too dangerous. He told her she was pregnant. He told her he couldn't risk her—couldn't lose her.

She listened. She let him finish. Then she stood, crossing the room to face him.

"I'm not a child," she said quietly. "I'm not fragile. I'm not going to break. I've been through more than most people could handle. And I'm still standing."

"I know." His voice cracked. "But I can't—"

"You can't protect me from everything." She took his hands. "You can't lock me away and hope the danger goes away. It won't. The only way to end this is to face it. Together."

He stared at her. His eyes were red, swollen.

"I can't lose you," he whispered.

"You won't." She squeezed his hands. "But if you keep pushing me away, you'll lose me anyway. Not to Elena—to fear. To the feeling that I'm not enough. To the feeling that I'm just a burden you have to protect."

"You're not a burden."

"Then let me fight."

Dante was silent for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

"Fine. But you stay behind me at all times. No heroics. No risks. If I tell you to run, you run. Understood?"

"Understood."

Cassandra prepared for the raid.

She wasn't a fighter—not like Dante or Marco or Evan. But she'd learned. She'd trained. She'd spent weeks with Marco in the gym, learning how to defend herself, how to shoot, how to survive.

She checked her weapon. She put on her vest. She looked at herself in the mirror.

Her mother's eyes stared back at her.

"I'm ready," she whispered.

---

They drove to the safe house in silence.

Cassandra sat beside Dante, her hand on her stomach. The baby kicked—strong, steady. She whispered to her daughter. Promises to protect her. Promises to survive.

The countryside passed by outside the windows—trees, fields, small houses with lit windows. It was peaceful. Quiet. Nothing like the violence they were about to face.

Dante reached for her hand. She took it.

---

They stormed the safe house at midnight.

Elena's men were waiting. The battle erupted—gunfire, shouts, the sound of bodies hitting the floor. Cassandra stayed behind Dante, her weapon raised. She fired when she needed to. She moved when she needed to. She survived.

Dante found Elena in the back room.

She was sitting in a chair, a glass of wine in her hand, a smile on her face. She looked up when he entered, her eyes cold.

"You're too late," she said.

Dante raised his gun. "It's over."

Elena laughed. "There's a bomb in this house. It's going to go off in five minutes. You can save yourselves—or you can save the baby."

---

Dante grabbed Cassandra and ran.

They burst through the back door, into the night. The house exploded behind them—a wall of fire and heat and sound.

They were thrown forward. Dante shielded Cassandra with his body. Debris rained down around them.

When the noise stopped, they lay there—breathing, alive, together.

---

They returned home that night.

Cassandra was shaken. Her hands were trembling. Her heart pounding heavily. But she was alive. She was with Dante. She was with her baby.

She looked at him—really looked at him.

"You saved me," she whispered.

"You saved yourself." He cupped her face. "You were incredible."

She smiled. "I learned from the best."