Page 98 of Vow Of Fire

She wouldn’t be awake now anyway, which saved me from having to reply.

I was about to lie back down again when I heard a faint sound.

Was that music?

I lay there listening. It sounded like a country song, just darker and more mournful.

What was Dante doing playing music at this hour?

Intrigued, I slipped out of bed and cracked open the door, peering into the hallway. The music was coming from the living room where a soft light still glowed.

Curiosity overcoming me, I padded down the hall to see what was going on.

Dante sat alone on the couch facing the fireplace, one arm stretched along the back cushions, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. He was staring at the painting above the fireplace. Flames flickered over his dark angular features, giving him an almost demonic air.

He was so still, like a beautiful, tragic statue. The haunting song drifted softly through hidden speakers. It had heavy acoustic guitar, slow drums, and gravelly vocals. It reminded me of him.

I hesitated in the doorway. “Dante?”

His attention shifted toward me, sharpening despite the weariness in his expression. “Evelyn. You okay?”

I nodded, hugging my arms around myself. “I heard the music.”

“Did it wake you?”

I shook my head. He looked tense, broody, and about as human as I’d ever seen him.

“You always listen to country music in the middle of the night?” I asked quietly, coming into the room.

His gaze roamed over my nightgown and he let out a low, controlled breath. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Bad dreams?”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Something like that.”

The haunted look in his eyes made my chest ache unexpectedly. Surprising myself, I sat down next to him on the couch.

“What are you doing?” He stared across at me.

“You look like you could use some company.”

His shoulders stiffened. “I’m fine. I don’t want company. You should get some sleep.”

“So should you,” I retorted.

He didn’t respond, just studied me for a long, drawn-out beat. It was still raining outside and the song was reaching its chorus.

“You chose these, didn’t you?” I asked softly, nodding at the paintings.

He hesitated, then gave a curt nod.

I knew it.

“Why did you make me think you didn’t?”

He studied me for a long moment, then said, “I needed you to be afraid of me. If you thought I was a fellow art lover, you would have seen me differently.”

It was true. I would have.