Laura turned to find him smirking down at her, his golden eyes dancing with mischief. Her traitorous heart skipped at his closeness, mind flashing to her dream—his hands on her hips, lips on her neck.

"I can choose my own weapons," she managed to say, stepping back to put space between them.

Dante's smirk widened. "Sure you can, sweetheart. But I know what works best with your fighting style." He selected a different sword, slightly heavier, and offered it to her. "This one suits your strength."

Their fingers brushed as she took it from him, and she refused to acknowledge the warmth that shot up her arm at the contact....