Page 60 of Of Lies and Shadows

Nothing more. Just a moment to pretend I’m not a prisoner in silk.

I’ve just settled under the covers with a novel, something light and far away from this world, when a knock sounds at my door.

I sigh, already assuming it’s one of the twins, restlesswith nerves about their first day of school. I set the book aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but the door opens before I can stand.

And it’s not Lucia or Alessio… It’s Dante.

He steps inside like he owns the floor beneath his feet because, technically, he does. But it’s not the authority that makes me pause.

It’s the fact that he’s barefoot. Shirtless. Dressed in nothing but drawstring pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips.

I shouldn’t stare, but I do.

Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Lean muscle wrapped in sun-warmed skin and a faint dusting of dark hair. Not the kind of man you’d expect to run empires or sign death orders with the same hand that could break someone in two.

The devil made his monsters appealing,I think bitterly, recalling something my mother once said with haunted eyes and a hollow smile.

And now I understand what she meant.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just lingers near the door, eyes skimming the room like he’s trying to decide whether he’s welcome.

“You’re still awake,” he says finally, sounding like gravel smoothed by silk.

I nod but don’t stand. “Barely.”

A ghost of a smirk touches his mouth. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “But you can help.”

I narrow my eyes at his flirty tone.

He stops at the edge of the bed, arms loose at his sides,gaze dipping briefly to the book beside me. “You used to smile when you talked to me.”

“I used to be someone else.” The words come out flat. True.

His jaw tightens for a second. Then he exhales through his nose and crouches a little, his hand finding the edge of the duvet.

“I’m trying.” Slowly, he peels it back, eyes catching on the thin strap of my tank top, the soft hem of my shorts, too little fabric, too much skin.

I feel exposed. Not only in a sexual way, but in a human way. Vulnerable, stripped of dignity. But I don’t move. I don’t take the bait. I don’t ask what he’s trying to do.

I just wait for meaning, for an apology, for a purpose that never comes.

Instead, he leans in.

The heat of his bare chest hits me first. Then the ghost of his lips against my jaw.

Not a kiss and not quite a caress but a touch too tender for the battlefield we’ve become.

“I miss the way you used to look at me,” he murmurs.

My whole body stiffens.

Then his hand slips beneath my shirt, trailing up until it cups my breast. His hand is broad, warm, and loving in the worst way, and the jolt it sends through me is instant. Hot. Sharp. Unwanted.

Butnotunresponsive. My body betrays me, and I hate it.

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