Morning sunlight spilled through half-open blinds, striping Dante’s bedroom in pale gold and gray.
Lia blinked awake slowly, her cheek pressed into a pillow that smelled faintly like clean cotton and something darker—cologne, smoke, Dante himself.
Warmth radiated along her back. Dante’s arm was draped around her waist, his chest pressed to her back, his breath brushing the nape of her neck.
She lay there, staring at the soft gray paint of the walls.
She rolled carefully to face him.
He was still asleep, dark lashes fanning shadows over his cheeks. His mouth was relaxed, no hard line between his brows, no calculating coldness in his eyes. Just a man, breathing softly beside her.
He looked younger in sleep. Like all the shadows he carried had slipped away for a few precious hours.
For
