Annabelle stood in the middle of Dante’s study, her fists clenched at her sides.

The air in the room was heavy with tension, the faint smell of leather and whiskey only adding to the suffocating weight between them.

Dante loomed on the other side of the room, his sharp, dark suit and towering frame making him look more like a force of nature than a man.

“You’re not going to Stoneraine,” he said, his voice calm but cold, like the surface of a frozen lake.

Annabelle’s jaw tightened. She refused to let him see her falter. “I am.”

“You don’t seem to understand how this works,” he replied, stepping closer....