Alina came out of the bathroom. She was wearing a crimson red dress, deep and rich, the color of blood and roses and the wine Dante had been drinking all night. The fabric clung to her shoulders, flowed down her body, and stopped just above her knees. It looked simple, elegant, and devastating.
Her hair was wet. Dark strands clung to her cheeks and neck, dripping onto the crimson silk. Her face was bare of makeup now, soft and flushed from the warmth of the shower.
She looked shy.
Her eyes darted to him, then away. Then back again. She tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear.
Dante's breath caught and he couldn't look away.
His crimson eyes traced every curve of the dress, every droplet of water on her skin, every small movement she made. He set down his wine glass. Then he stood.
Alina stepped back.
Her bare feet pressed against the stone floor. Her hands clutched the edge of the doorframe.
"Dante—"
He walked toward her. She stepped back again.
