Gunfire cracked through the night.

The forest lit up in violent bursts of muzzle flash, sparks glinting off damp leaves. Dante pressed Isabella against the thick trunk of a pine tree, shielding her with his body as bullets tore through the branches overhead. The air reeked of smoke, metal, and fear.

“Stay low!” he barked, voice rough and commanding.

Her heart hammered, her palms slick with sweat as she clutched the pistol he’d given her earlier. Every sound — every thud of boots, every ricochet of lead — made her flinch. But Dante was calm. Deadly calm. The kind of calm that only came from years of surviving the impossible....