In The Hand Of Dante Book Mga Nobela at Kwento

The name on the page wouldn’t stay still. It shifted, swimming around in red ink that bubbled up like blood from a fresh cut. June’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and the covers of the wooden book clicked together like bones. “Dante,” June managed, voice barely there. “Look. Look at the last line.” Dante leaned in, holding his breath. He reached for the wood but jerked his hand back, like the book had scalded him. “That can’t be. He was right here with us. We saw him. He fought beside us.”

Dante I stand in front of the mirror as I finish getting dressed. Black dress pants and a shirt, no tie, with the top buttons unbuttoned. I rarely like wearing anything around my neck except for my white gold chain, which my mother gave me when I turned fifteen. It holds a wing pendant similar to my tattoo, only with two wings. Behind them is written in Italian, "Sempre con te" (Always with you). She had said those wings were mine, that the phrase was so I would always know she'd be with me, protecting me, that I'd need them when I was ready to fly. In a way, she was right. I needed those wings a lot when I lost them. They were what I held onto. Her words are etched deeply into my memories.

Then, in a quiet, intimate gesture, he pressed it into my hand. I didn’t need it. The blood on my skin belonged there. Still—I took it. Dante’s fingers brushed mine, lingering. Then he leaned in, his voice low. “You never looked more powerful.”

“In those dreams, these are what I see also. In the darkness, a woman is stretching her hand out, offering to rescue me from it all. I wake up trembling and the only thing I can do is paint the hope of salvation.” He pointed at one painting in particular which showed me standing at the top of a cliff with my hand stretched out to a man who was struggling to hold onto a stone outcropping to stop himself from falling completely over the cliff. The painting had sharp, dark lines and distortions. I wasn’t good at analyzing artworks, but Dad owned a lot of collections so being around the appraisers gave me a little idea. “And I’m the one you see?” I asked. He nodded, his eyes twinkling. “I’m not

Guards stood, their swords and weapons out. “Everybody out,” Dante growled, and they all ran out. “Are you okay?” Damien asked, holding my cheeks. I looked down, and I was clutching the torn paper tightly. “We tried to remove it from your hand. What happened?” he asked, worriedly. I breathed out, opening my palms, and Damien collected the paper. “We need to find the book Damien,” I said, sniffing, as I can still remember those emotions I just felt. “What happened?” Dante asked.

I started by opening one eye and I found Dante leaning a bit too close to my face. I planned to roll over to the floor even if I would end up in pain. However, I didn't get to initiate that because Dante’s hand went down to my waist a little bit lower. My breathing hitched. “I didn't know your loud mouth have use in other aspects.” there was no way I wouldn't understand his word. They were as dirty as his mind.

Lorenzo snarled, swiping at Robert and carving claw marks into his shirt as he sent him flying and focused on his new target. “Give me the book! Now!” he screamed, his many voices so loud that I had to cover my ears and just in time too because I heard glass shatter in the distance. Dante glared at him, the book tucked securely under his arm. “If you want it so bad, come and get it!” Without hesitation, Lorenzo pounced on Dante but he was too late. He passed the book to me and grabbed Lorenzo, pinning him down to the ground. “Let go of me! Now!”

But her husband's face was cold, emotionless. A hand then clutched at her face. Lilith let out a scream of pain and rage as her body was gripped by the hands from the underworld. They were yanking at her as she tried to fight back, but it was no use. They were burning and pulling her closer and closer. I can still hear the final scream as she was dragged into the abyss, her claws were grappled, and she fell into the never-ending flames. And just like that. Gone.

Large hands caught my shoulders, and instead of falling face flat, I hit a firm chest. “Careful there, il mio sole, I don’t want you falling and hurting yourself,” Dante whispered in my ear, pulling my hair from my face, and my cheeks turned pink. (Trans: my sunshine) “Thank you,” I mumbled, and he helped me stand on my two feet. “And I– oh you suit!” I gasped, like I was watching the end of the world, as I stared at my hand pressed against his chest. The same hand holding a fricken lobster tail.

Instead, I turned my hand palm-up, inviting him in, our fingers slotting together as naturally as puzzle pieces clicking into place, his larger hand engulfing mine with a warmth that felt like home. He exhaled softly, a sound laced with relief that made my heart clench in my chest. His thumb began its slow, rhythmic dance across the back of my hand—tracing the delicate ridges of my knuckles, dipping into the hollows between my fingers, each stroke deliberate and soothing, like he was mapping me, memorizing every line. It was intimate, almost absentminded, but I knew better. Dante didn’t do anything without intention; every gesture was a calculated move in a game he always won. The warmth of