Evelina woke up to the sound of a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.
It was slow, steady, and heavy, a rhythmic thud against her ear. She was lying on her side, her face pressed against a wall of warm, hard muscle. A heavy arm was draped over her waist, pinning her to the mattress. Her legs were tangled with thick, hairy limbs that felt like iron bars.
Memory crashed into her. The shower. The soap. The cold command to sleep.
She was in Dante’s bed. She was in his arms.
She lay freezing, afraid to breathe. The morning sun was filtering through the cracks in the metal shutters, casting thin bars of light across the room. It illuminated the dark hair on his chest, the scar on his shoulder, the terrifying relaxation of his sleeping face.
He looked human when he slept. That was the worst part. He
