"Dante,” Lark breathed. “You never knock.”
He smiled faintly. "I do now."
"You've come a long way,” she teased.
"I’m trying,” he said. She opened the door, and he stepped inside before closing it behind him. Neither of them spoke, and the room suddenly felt much smaller than it actually was.
"You shouldn't be alone,” he said.
"I needed to think,” she breathed.
"About?"
She looked out across the warehouse. "When I was little—” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. "My father used to tell me stories." Dante stayed quiet. "He'd sit on the edge of my bed and tell me that everyone wanted something from us." She laughed bitterly. "He said trust was weakness."
Dante folded his arms over his massive chest. "I've heard that speech."
"He said love makes people vulnerable,” she said, looking down at her hands. "I believed him."
His chest tightened. "I know."
"No." She slowly shook her head. "I really believed him." She looked back toward the operations floor where agents hurried between workstations. "Now I look out there—” She swallowed, “and I see complete strangers risking their lives."
"For you,” Dante added.
She nodded. "I don't understand it."
Dante took a slow breath. "They're not risking themselves because you're Rafael Santos's daughter." She looked at him. "They're risking themselves because you're Lark." The simple statement unraveled something inside her because no one had ever separated the two before.
"I don't even know who I am anymore,” she admitted. The confession hung in the air.
Dante stepped closer. "I do."
She looked up at him. "You do?"
"I know that you’re the woman who sneaks books into the kitchen because the staff works sixteen-hour shifts and never gets a break,” he said.
Her eyes widened. "You knew about that?"
"I knew everything that you did, Lark.” He smiled softly. "I know you secretly feed the stray cat that lives outside the east wall."
She blinked. "You saw that?"
"I saw you every morning." He continued. "I know you hate lilies."
She laughed through her surprise. "How do you know that?"
"You told one of the gardeners they smelled like funerals."
"I did,” she remembered.
"You asked the chef to make birthday cakes for the children of the housekeepers.” He continued.
She stared at him. "I never told anyone that."
"You didn't have to,” he said. His voice grew quieter. "I paid attention."
Tears burned behind her eyes. All these years, she'd believed no one saw her—not really. Her father saw an asset, the guards saw an assignment, and the servants saw someone they were afraid to speak to. But Dante—he'd seen her.
