The forest stretched for miles, a tangled maze of trees and mist that seemed to breathe with every gust of wind. Isla moved through it silently, her boots sinking into damp soil, her breath forming thin clouds in the chill air. She had left behind the last traces of safety days ago, and now, only instinct guided her.
Each step forward pulled her closer to the heart of danger—back into Dante's world. The irony wasn't lost on her. She had run from him, from the suffocating reach of his empire, yet every road that promised freedom eventually curved back toward his shadow.
But this time, she wasn't returning as his captive. She was returning with intent.
The memory of his voice still haunted her, that deep, steady tone that could sound both tender and cruel. "You are mine, Isla. Even when you run."
She had believed that once. Now, she knew better. She wasn't his. Not anymore.
