ROWAN I woke up slowly, the warmth of Dante’s head still resting on my stomach. He had fallen asleep there after I had stroked his hair for a while. He had only slept for about two hours — nothing too serious — but even that short rest made me feel a little lighter. With everything that had happened at the ball, the poisoning, the fear, the locked room, I had missed the kings so badly. I needed them. I needed their presence, their touch, their voices to remind me I was not alone in this heavy, grieving palace. Dante looked beautiful while he slept. His face was softer than usual, the cold mask gone, replaced by quiet vulnerability. His dark lashes rested against his cheeks, and his breathing was slow and even. I wanted to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, but I did not want to wake him. He had carried so much. He deserved this small moment of peace. Eventually Dante stirred. He lifted his head, looked at me for a long moment, then leaned in and gave me a deep, slow
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