Elena's heart hammered against her ribs. Dante's words hung in the air between them—eleven years of hidden feelings, a lifetime of watching from the shadows.
"That night at the masquerade," Elena whispered. "You knew who I was from the beginning."
"From the moment I saw you." Dante's thumb traced circles on the back of her hand. "You were wearing that silver mask with black feathers. Your hair was down for once. And your eyes—God, Elena, your eyes looked so empty. Like someone had stolen all the light from them."
"Marcus had." Elena looked down at their joined hands. "I'd caught him with Isabelle's pictures again. He'd been locked in his study for hours, just staring at them. On our anniversary."
Dante's jaw clenched. "I should have told you who I was that night. Should have taken you
