Camille woke to the sound of waves brushing the shore—soft, steady, almost musical. For a moment, she didn't move. She lay still, letting the sunlight warm her skin as it drifted lazily through the glass walls of the villa.
It felt unreal.
Like stepping into someone else's life.
Someone who wasn't hunted.
Someone who wasn't tied to a contract or a war she didn't start.
Her fingers curled slowly into the sheets.
Luxury wasn't supposed to feel unfamiliar.
Rest wasn't supposed to make her suspicious.
Peace wasn't supposed to feel like a trap.
And yet… it did.
Camille sat up, pushing her hair back as she tried to steady her racing thoughts. The room was bright, beautiful, open—but the silence made her too aware of her own heartbeat.
Was she really safe?
Or was this just the quiet before everything shattered again?
She slipped to her feet and padded across the polished floor. The villa opened directly onto a private deck, where the ocean breeze kissed her face the second she stepped outside.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
Just breathe.
But the calm didn't last.
"Couldn't sleep?" a voice called behind her.
Camille flinched before she recognized it.
Dante stood by the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a mug of something steaming. His shoulders relaxed a little when he saw her—not fully, but enough to show he'd been alert all morning.
He was always alert.
Always watching.
Always carrying tension like extra weight.
Camille glanced at him. "Did you sleep at all?"
Dante took a slow sip. "Enough."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's not an answer."
"It wasn't a question."
She rolled her eyes, but the edge of her lips twitched. Dante pretended not to notice.
He walked past her, stopping at the deck railing. The sunlight hit him from the side, outlining him in gold. He looked like a man who belonged in shadows but somehow tolerated the light when she was in it.
"You can relax here, Camille," he said, not looking at her. "You don't have to keep watching the doors."
"I wasn't—"
"You were," he said calmly. "You're always checking for exits now."
She swallowed, unsure whether to feel exposed or understood.
"It's… a habit," she murmured.
"It's trauma," Dante corrected gently.
She froze.
He never said that word. Not for himself. Not for her.
But he didn't push it. He simply leaned on the railing and nodded toward the ocean.
"Walk with me?"
The question surprised her—not an order. Not a command. An invitation.
Camille hesitated, then nodded.
They walked along the beach, the sand warm beneath their feet. Waves lapped at their ankles, cool and playful. Seagulls circled overhead, their cries sharp but distant.
It was all so normal.
So ordinary.
So… safe.
Camille felt something loosen inside her chest.
For a while, they didn't speak. Not out of tension—just a quiet understanding neither of them wanted to break.
Then Dante spoke softly: "You were crying last night."
She stiffened. "I wasn't—"
"It's okay," he said. "You don't have to pretend here."
Her throat tightened. She felt the sting of tears again—annoying, unwanted. She looked away, staring out at the water.
"It hit me," she whispered. "Everything we've been running from. Everything that almost happened to us. It felt like… if I relaxed, it would all come back."
"It won't," Dante said firmly.
"You don't know that."
"I do," he said. "Because I'm here."
His voice was low, steady, certain.
Camille's heartbeat stuttered.
Not because of romance.
Not because of anything dramatic.
But because she realized something simple and terrifying:
Dante didn't make empty promises.
He only said something if he would bleed to uphold it.
Camille swallowed hard. "It's strange… seeing you like this."
"Like what?"
"…calm. Soft-spoken. Almost human."
He shot her a dry look. "I am human."
"Debatable."
He shook his head slightly, a hint of amusement breaking through the hardened exterior. She didn't realize how rare that expression was until she saw it.
But it faded quickly.
His gaze drifted to the far edge of the shore—sharp, calculating.
"Someone was here last night," he said quietly.
Camille froze. "What?"
He pointed to a faint set of footprints half-washed by the tide. Not theirs. Too deep. Too wide.
Her pulse spiked.
"But—you said—"
"I know what I said." His tone stayed calm, but his eyes darkened. "No one should know this island exists. Someone did."
"Victor?" she whispered.
Dante shook his head. "He doesn't have the reach. This is someone else."
Someone scarier.
Someone quieter.
Someone who left no message—just presence.
Camille backed away slightly. Dante stepped closer, his presence instantly steadying.
"You're safe," he said, voice low but unshakable. "I promise. Whatever this is, I'll handle it."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I won't allow anything to happen to you."
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes—something fierce, protective, and deeply internal.
Camille took a slow breath. "What do we do now?"
Dante didn't hesitate.
"We stop pretending this is a vacation."
He placed a hand lightly on her back—not pulling, not guiding, just reassuring.
"Pack your things," he said. "We're leaving in thirty minutes."
Her heart dropped. "Leaving? Already?"
"This place was supposed to be hidden," he said, jaw tight. "If someone found it, they can find us."
Camille's stomach twisted.
The soft life she wanted?
The rest she deserved?
The peace she begged for?
Gone in a heartbeat.
Dante must have sensed the shift in her mood because he softened his voice.
"I know you're tired," he murmured. "But trust me. This isn't retreating. It's regrouping."
"And after regrouping?" she whispered.
His eyes met hers—dark, steady, unblinking.
"…we fight back."