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The pain I was braced for didn't land.

I jerked my head up. Dante was standing in front of me, one hand clamped hard against his own side, blood pulsing out between his fingers. He swayed, then collapsed into my arms.

"Dante—"

My hand hit his wound. My other hand was already on my phone, dialing 911. Stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding.

"What the hell were you thinking?" I pressed down harder. My fingers were slick and hot.

His eyes were losing focus. His face was the color of paper. He looked at me anyway, the corner of his mouth lifting, the faintest ghost of a smile.

"So this… is what it feels like. Did it hurt this much for you, seven years ago?"

Something seized in my chest.

The sirens screamed closer. He slipped under just before they arrived.