The small flame in Dante's bedroom danced across the walls with its glinting fragments. Isla was opposite him in the leather armchair, and the tension between them was so tight like a stretched string. The clock marked late, and the large house was abnormally quiet. There were no distant shots, and no noises emanated from the halls. Only the crackling fire and the constant beat of her heart told the passage of time.
Dante wasn't drinking, though his glass of whiskey was still full. His hand rested on the arm of the chair, fingers lightly drumming, and he just stared at the fire. Isla looked at him in silence, observing his hard jawline and tension lines around his mouth. Tonight, he seemed more relaxed, but far from weaker. It was as if he had opened a little of his guard and was allowing her to see it.
