Pain.
It was the first sensation that hit me. A lingering, burning ache radiating from my shoulder, clawing through my body like fire creeping along exposed nerves. I attempted to move, but something heavy held me down.
A hand. Warm. Steady. Not binding but supportive.
Struggling to open my eyes, I blinked against the dim light. The ceiling loomed dark and unfamiliar above me, high and adorned with intricate carvings. This was not my room. Not a hospital. It was Dante’s estate.
Turning my head, every motion sent a sharp pain slicing through me. And there he sat.
Dante Valenci, beside the bed, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained with something dark. Blood. My blood.
He appeared… shattered. Not in the way typical people look when anxious—no frantic movements, no visible panic. Just pur
