Dante’s POV

The phone screen glared up at me like an open wound.

You’re quieter than usual, Alina. Getting tired of pretending?

The bastard wasn’t just watching—he was savoring it. Feeding on her silence, on the cracks in her armor.

I felt my jaw lock, every muscle straining against the urge to smash the phone to the floor. Not because I thought breaking glass would fix anything, but because violence was the only language Barry understood—and I was getting dangerously fluent.

Alina sat beside me, her knuckles white where she clutched the edge of the desk. The look in her eyes—wide, glassy, so damn tired—cut through me sharper than any...