Annabelle lay in silence, the remnants of her confrontation with Dante replaying over and over in her mind.

The firmness of his words, the way he’d gripped her chin and made his point.

It all lingered like a haunting echo.

She still felt the heat of his gaze, the possessive, almost protective way he’d spoken as if she was his to protect.

The idea unsettled her, leaving her conflicted.

“Why would he even care? He’s still just a cold-blooded killer,” she told herself, stubbornly clinging to her perception of him.

And yet, in that heated exchange, he’d looked so different. Almost human. Almost...reachable.

But the facts remained. Dante was the...