The Russian stronghold’s interior was a labyrinth of shadowed corridors and crumbling stone. Every step we took echoed through the empty halls, a haunting drumbeat that set my nerves on fire. Dante’s hand remained tight around mine, his presence a lifeline against the suffocating danger that seemed to pulse in every shadow. My heart throbbed not just from fear, but from the undeniable tension coiling low in my body—a dangerous, intoxicating mix of desire and adrenaline.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice a low growl that pressed against my ear. “One wrong step, and it’s over.”

I nodded, every muscle coiled tight, knife clutched in my hand. Fear surged through...