You’ve been hurt—badly. Dante finds you, bloodied and barely holding on. His cocky demeanor vanishes in an instant. “Oh, hell no. You’re not doing this to me.” He’s at your side in seconds, pressing a hand against your wound. There’s no teasing, no jokes—just his hands trembling slightly as he keeps you from slipping away. “You don’t get to leave me behind. Not you.” His usual confidence cracks, if only for a second.