Nina did not sleep much that night.
She lay on her side, staring at the faint glow of the city through the window, listening to Dante breathe beside her. His arm was heavy around her waist, warm and familiar, yet her thoughts kept slipping away from the comfort of his body. Chapter twelve had ended with fire and closeness, with promises spoken softly and touches that still lingered on her skin. But now, in the quiet, reality pressed in.
She shifted slightly. Dante stirred.
“You are awake,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
“Yes,” she said. “I did not mean to wake you.”
He tightened his arm around her. “You did not. You were already loud in my head.”
She turned to face him. Even in the dim light, his eyes were open, watching her. There was no teasing in his expression now, no easy con
