Dante’s POV
My hand burned where it rested against the wall. Elara’s back was under my palm, her breath hot and shallow in my ear. For a heartbeat the world narrowed to the press of her, the soft pull of her breath, the impossible tug of the bond that had always humiliated me and now threatened to undo me.
“You shouldn’t run,” I said, low. I could feel Ken straining beneath my skin — muscles coiled, teeth bared, wanting. Wanting her.
Elara didn’t look at me. Her jaw clenched, but her voice was steady. “Don’t tell me what to do, Dante.”
Guilt flickered under the rage. I’d been the one to reject her once. I’d worn that night like armor for years, and now it scraped me raw. My thumb brushed the scar at my palm without thinking, the stupid small pain grounding me, demanding I be something
