Dante's hand never left Anastasia's. His long fingers wrapped around hers with a firmness that didn't ask for permission, only claimed—like everything he ever wanted. His thumb brushed her skin rhythmically, as if it were his way of reminding her she was still tethered to him, still his. There was a strange kind of comfort in that—the kind that made it hard to tell if she was being soothed or possessed.
Outside the car window, New York blurred into a canvas of wet glass and blinking lights. The city was alive, bustling in its usual chaos, but inside the sleek black car, silence settled like fog between them. Anastasia leaned against the window slightly, her pulse still throbbing from everything Juliette had said. Betrayal carved a bitter ache inside her chest, but Dante's hand was an anchor keeping her grounded.
She turned to look at him.
