The forest never felt more alive—or more dangerous.

Dante’s presence beside me was a storm contained, every step, every breath, a reminder of the peril that followed us. The Russians hadn’t given up, and neither had the threats that clung to every shadow. Yet, amid the chaos, I felt a different kind of tension—one that pulsed between Dante and me like an electric current, dangerous, irresistible, consuming.

We moved silently, my fingers brushing against his side, almost accidentally, and I felt the heat of him ripple through me. He didn’t pull away. His gaze, dark and molten, lingered on my hands, tracing the line of my wrist, the curve of...