By the time the sky began to pale, the rain had softened into a fine mist. The mountains behind them were swallowed in fog, the road ahead empty and endless. Dante’s hands were tight on the steering wheel, veins standing out against his skin. His shirt clung to him, still damp from the storm. Isabella sat quietly beside him, staring out the window, her reflection ghostlike in the glass.

They had escaped—for now. But she knew better than to believe it was over.

“How far until we stop?” she asked softly.

Dante’s gaze flicked toward her, his eyes dark, unreadable. “Another thirty minutes. There’s a safehouse near the coast. No...