DANTE
Dante counted her breaths.
He'd lost track of the total since the battle. Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. Each one tallied like a miser hoarding coins.
In. Out. In. Out.
His hand gripped the armrest, splinters biting into his palm. He didn't move it—the pain was real, grounding, proof he was still here, still watching.
Two days since Caelum's death, since he'd poured more of himself into her than he should have.
Two days since he'd collapsed beside her, his body giving out the moment hers started breathing again. He'd woken hours later with Nathaniel standing over him, demanding he rest. He'd refused. Dragged himself to this chair instead.
Two days of watching her lie motionless while he slowly came apart.
The door opened. He didn't look up.
"My Lord." Nathaniel's voice came from the doorway.
Dante said nothing. His gaze stayed fixed on her face. On the rise and fall of her chest. Still breathing. That was all that mattered.
"You need to rest." Nathaniel didn't step into the room. "You'vebeen here for forty-eight hours straight. Haven't eaten. Haven't slept. You're still recovering?—"
"Leave."
The word came out flat. Empty. His shadows clung to him in wisps, depleted. His hands hadn't stopped trembling in two days. And her chest kept rising, falling. That fragile rhythm was the only thing keeping him from shattering completely.
A pause. Then footsteps retreating. The door closed with a soft click.
Silence again. Just her breathing. That precious, necessary sound.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head bowing under a weight that had nothing to do with exhaustion. He'd given so much of himself that his power was recovering more slowly than it should. Depleted. Raw. There was a hollowness behind his ribs where part of him used to live, like a room with half the furniture missing. His muscles ached from sitting in this chair. His eyes burned from not sleeping. His stomach had stopped complaining about food sometime yesterday.
But he didn't care about any of that. All that mattered was her.
And she still hadn't woken.
Her vitals were strong. He could feel her steady pulse through the bond, sense her body recovering from wounds that should have killed her. That had killed her, before he'd dragged her back.
But what if he'd saved her body and lost her soul anyway? What if she opened her eyes and the person looking back wasn't really her anymore?
Stop.He forced the thoughts away, focused on the bond instead. On the thread connecting them that pulsed with life and warmth. She was in there. She had to be.
Her fingers twitched.
Dante's head snapped up. Every muscle went rigid.
Her hand. Resting on the blanket. Her fingers had moved. Just slightly—barely a tremor—but they'd moved.
He stopped breathing. Afraid any sound would shatter this moment.
Her eyelids fluttered. She made a sound, her head turning slightlyon the pillow. Unconscious movement, instinctive, but it wasmovement.
He wanted to reach for her. Touch her. Make sure this was real. But his body had locked in place and his heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.
Her eyes opened.
Slowly. Unfocused at first, blinking against the dim light. She stared at the ceiling, brow furrowing.
