Steam still clung to her skin as Anastasia lay back in the now-cold bath, the echo of Dante's touch haunting her like a phantom. No matter how much she soaked, how much she tried to slow her breathing, she could still feel the ghost of his fingers, the arrogant smirk that had tugged at his lips, and the searing whisper he left in her ears. Her skin tingled, flushed, and traitorous. It wasn't right—it wasn't fair.
She finally climbed out, skin damp and warm, and reached for a robe. The bedroom greeted her with silence, the dim lighting casting long shadows on the marble floor. No Dante. She padded barefoot toward the massive walk-in closet, her heartbeat still unsettled. Slipping into a pair of satin pyjamas, she tossed the robe onto a chair and walked back to the bed, half-expecting to see Dante emerge from the shadows.
But he didn't.
He never came.
And somehow, that hollow absence was worse than his insufferable presence.
