Luca's eyes gleamed in the flickering firelight, sharp and assessing. He looked almost the same as she remembered—sleek hair brushed back, an easy confidence resting on his shoulders like a royal cloak. But time had carved new lines into his face, the kind that came from betrayal and too many close calls.
Isla stood across from him, refusing the chair he offered. Her cloak still damp from melted snow clung to her form, but her stare was steady. She had faced storms far worse than this man.
"You've been missing for months," Luca said, circling her like a predator that found an unexpected challenge. "I assumed Dante buried you in the woods somewhere."
"He tried," Isla replied calmly.
That made him pause. His lips twitched upward, half amusement, half disbelief. "And yet here you are. Walking into my camp, alive, unguarded, asking for me by name. Either you're brave, or very desperate."
"Maybe both," she said.
