Camille woke slowly, her lashes fluttering against the velvet pillow, the faint hum of the penthouse's hidden ventilation brushing warm air over her skin. For the first time in what felt like ages, she wasn't waking to panic, threats, or Dante dragging her into another storm. She woke to silence. Clean, golden, quiet luxury.
The satin sheets were cool under her palm. She stretched slightly—then froze.
An arm was draped around her waist. Heavy. Warm. Steady.
Dante.
His breathing was even, slow, the kind that didn't belong to the ruthless devil heir she'd seen interrogate a grown man without blinking. In sleep, he looked… different. Less carved from iron. His dark hair fell partly across his forehead, and there was something almost boyish in the way his fingers curled against her hip, unconsciously claiming her even in rest.
For a long moment, she simply stared.
