Chapter 197

The fire had burned low, the logs collapsing into a bed of glowing embers.

Dante hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. His hand was still around mine, warm, steady, yet his eyes were turned not to me but inward, to a time that lived in him like an old scar—never fully healed, only quiet until touched.

I didn’t rush him. The silence between us was not heavy; it was waiting.

And when he finally spok