Curled on her side, hair fanned across the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek. The shirt she wore earlier slips off one shoulder, exposing the faint bruise at her temple.
For a long moment, I stand there.
Watching.
Listening to the slow rhythm of her breath.
She looks nothing like the woman who fought me at every turn today.
No fire. No defiance.
Just quiet.
It does something to me—something I don’t want to name.
I step closer, slow enough that the floor doesn’t creak. My hand hovers for a second over the edge of the blanket before I finally pull it up over her shoulder.
She sighs softly, turning her face toward the warmth, and my chest tightens.
I should leave.
But I don’t.
I watch her for a little while—minutes, maybe more. Long enough to memorize the sound of peace in a place that doesn’t deserve it.
It’s dangerous, what she makes me feel.
Not lust. Not yet.
Something quieter.
Something worse.
Footsteps break the stillness. I turn as Nicole appears at the end of the hall.
“Leaving for the night,” she whispers.
I nod, stepping out of the doorway, pulling the door to Isabella’s room closed until only a thin line of light remains.
Nicole hesitates. “Sofia talked to her today.”
My shoulders tense instantly. “About what?”
“About her mother.”
The air shifts, heavy, cold. “What did Isabella say?”
“She didn’t ask,” Nicole says quickly. “Sofia brought it up. She was showing Isabella her drawings—there’s one of your wife in the kitchen. Isabella didn’t pry. She just listened.”
I drag a hand down my face. “She shouldn’t have to hear about that.”
“She didn’t push,” Nicole insists. “You know Sofia. She talks when she feels safe.”
That word—safe—hits harder than I expect.
Nicole studies me for a moment, eyes soft. “You can trust her, Dante. Even if you don’t want to.”
“Trust,” I echo quietly. “That’s how people die in my world.”
