The afternoon had passed like a silent battle, and ever since Svetlana had run from him, Dante had tried to distract himself by throwing all his focus into work—into the construction of the theater, into reviewing every detail, into making sure everything was in order.

But his mind refused to stay still.

No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, she was everywhere.

In the brush of cold wind against his skin, reminding him of the softness of her body.

In the sound of tools echoing through the site, like a reflection of his own bottled-up anxiety.

In the burn of his blood, demanding something he knew he shouldn’t want.

And Svetlana was no better off.

She had tried to lose herself in the pages of her books, seeking refuge in the love stories she adored.

But every sentence, every scene, every kiss described in those romantic novels dragged her right back to him.

To the intensity of his gaze.

To the feeling of his breath on her skin when he was close.

To that kiss that still burned in he