The silence after the fight hung heavy in the air, broken only by the faint hum of the city far below. Dawn had burned away the last traces of night, and yet the world inside the safehouse felt cloaked in shadow.

Dante stood at the window, shirt unbuttoned, chest rising and falling with steady restraint. He hadn’t spoken in several minutes—not since they’d taken down the intruder. The man had been armed, trained, and yet reckless, as though he hadn’t come to kill but to warn.

Isabella sat on the edge of the bed, watching him, the tension between them humming like a taut wire. She could see it in...