The world outside was still and soft. The morning light slipped through the cracks of the curtains, painting the room in muted gold. The storm that had battered the night before had finally broken, leaving only the quiet hum of dawn and the rhythmic breathing of the two souls tangled in the aftermath of everything they had endured — and everything they had become.

Dante stirred first. His body ached in that delicious way that followed passion, every muscle heavy with the memory of her. His arm, possessive even in sleep, was still wrapped around Isabella’s waist, his fingers resting on the bare curve of her hip. The air carried...