The morning light filtered through the tall windows of Dante’s safehouse, spilling across the room in long, golden beams. Isabella lay awake beside him, the softness of the bed and the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the danger and chaos of the nights before. Every inch of her ached with the memory of the past week—traps evaded, enemies cornered, and the invisible threads of betrayal unraveled. Yet even in the quiet, her mind refused to settle.

Dante shifted beside her, his hand brushing hers in a tentative gesture, fingers entwining naturally as if they belonged together. Isabella felt a shiver of anticipation at the simple contact, every...