Dante
Her lips still burned against mine.
I could taste her even as she pulled away, breath ragged, eyes wide like she couldn’t believe what we’d just done. Hell, I couldn’t either.
The rogues’ blood still clung to my hands. My shoulder throbbed where claws had torn into me, but none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the woman standing in front of me, flushed and trembling, looking at me like I was both her salvation and her curse.
And maybe I was.
Shirley drew in a shaky breath. “You’re bleeding.”
I glanced down. She was right—blood seeped through the rip in my shirt, down my arm. But when I moved, pain lanced through my ribs, sharp enough to make me grit my teeth.
“I’ve had worse,” I muttered, but she wasn’t having it.
“Sit,” she said firmly, pointing to the couch.
