Reaches for him.
My fingers brush his jaw. The stubble is rough against my palm. He's warm. Solid. Real.
Dante shifts closer.
His hand cups the back of my neck, gentle but firm, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is soft.
Tender.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
"How are you?"
His voice is rough. Low.
I don't know how to answer.
How am I?
"What time is it?"
Dante's thumb strokes the side of my neck.
"Morning. A little after seven."
I look past him.
The bedroom is empty except for us. The door is closed. The penthouse beyond it is silent.
"Where is everyone?"
"Gone."
I push myself up on my elbow.
"Gone where?"
"Lorenzo took Sophia back to Chicago." Dante sits up slowly, wincing as the movement pulls at his wound. "He wanted her out of Denver. Away from the cartel's reach."
"And you didn't go with them?"
Dante's jaw tightens.
He doesn't answer immediately.
Instead, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits there, his back to me, his shoulders tense. The morning light catches the scars on his skin. The fresh bandage on his side. The way his muscles coil like he's holding something back.
"Dante."
He sighs.
The sound is heavy. Exhausted.
"If I leave," he says quietly, "they follow me to Chicago."
I sit up fully.
