The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of Dante's study lamp. The shadows carved sharp lines across his face, highlighting the chiseled bone structure and the piercing glint of his eyes. Anastasia sat silently on his lap, the weight of everything—of the CCTV footage, of Juliette's betrayal, of nearly dying—pressing into her chest like an unseen vice.
But none of it compared to the feel of Dante's hand splayed across her waist. Warm, heavy, unyielding.
She could feel the slow rhythm of his breathing, the subtle flex of muscle beneath his tailored shirt. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, and the words that spilled next made her entire spine stiffen.
"I want to have you tonight, Anastasia."
Her breath hitched.
Her mind blanked.
