The early morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the villa, casting pale light on the battle-worn walls. Dust lingered in the air, remnants of the chaos from the last ambush. The quiet was deceptive, almost dangerous, as if the very house held its breath, waiting for the next strike. Isabella lay curled in Dante’s arms, the weight of the night still pressing against her in memory. Every touch, every brush of skin from yesterday’s struggle, still lingered in her veins like a slow-burning fire. Her heart had not stopped racing since he had held her close after the firefight.

Dante shifted slightly, his hand tracing lazy patterns along...