The storm kept rattling Dante's windows.

I lay beneath his enormous duvet, staring at the ceiling and pretending my heart wasn't making an absolute fool of itself.

Beside me, New York's most feared criminal breathed with infuriating calm.

More than I should.

His answer echoed in my head.

I turned onto my side, putting my back to him.

"Good night," I announced.

"You said that ten minutes ago."

"I'm hoping repetition will make you disappear."

The mattress shifted. Warmth gathered behind me.

"Jamie?"

"What?"

"You're stealing the blanket."

"Consider it payment for my excellent bed-warming services."

He laughed under his breath. Then an arm settled loosely around my waist.

I went rigid.

"Excuse me?"

"The room is cold."

"You own three hotels. Buy another blanket."

"I prefer this one."

"I'm not a blanket!"

"I've noticed. Blankets complain less."

His injured shoulder brushed mine. I remembered the blood on his shirt and stopped myself from elbowing him.

"Does that hurt?" I asked.

"Only when you threaten to murder me."

"Then it must be agony."

His hand rested above the duvet. It didn't tighten, and I could have moved away.

Instead, I stayed, annoyed by how quickly his warmth made the room feel bearable.

Dante traced a slow circle over the blanket near my elbow.

"Stop being nice," I muttered.

"Would you prefer an insult?"

"At least those make sense."

"Your hair looks like a bird built a nest in it."

"Better."

He brushed a stray lock away from my forehead. His fingers paused, giving me time to object.

I didn't.

"You're impossible," he said.

"You hired me."

"A decision I'm reconsidering hourly."

He leaned closer and pressed a brief kiss to my forehead.

My thoughts scattered like frightened pigeons.

"Dante."

"Yes?"

"Was that in the contract?"

"No."

"Then what was it?"

"Something I wanted to do."

His honesty was worse than any practiced threat.

A second kiss landed against my cheek. I turned toward him, startled, and found his face inches from mine.

He glanced at my mouth.

I put my palm against his chest.

"Wait."

He stopped immediately and drew back.

"All right."

I stared at him. I had expected a smirk, a clever order, something I could fight.

Instead, he waited.

"You can't just do that," I whispered.

"You're right. I should have asked."

The admission made me feel strangely unsteady.

"You're supposed to be terrifying," I complained.

"I can arrange that tomorrow."

"Don't joke."

His expression changed.

"I'm not joking about this, Jamie."

The quiet between us stretched.

I could hear the wind scraping branches against the glass.

"You said you wanted more than you should," I reminded him.

"I did."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means I'm trying very hard not to make my problems yours."

I thought about the contract downstairs, my father's disappearance, and the gun he kept beside the bed.

Nothing about us was simple.

"You're doing a terrible job," I said.

"I know."

I should have rolled away. Instead, I heard myself ask the stupidest question of my life.

"What's next? Does your maid have to warm your tongue too?"

Dante blinked.

Then his mouth curved.

"My tongue?"

My stomach dropped.

"Forget I said that."

"It's rather cold."

"Your tongue?"

"Terribly."

"That's not a medical condition!"

"Perhaps you should examine it."

I pulled the duvet over my nose.

"You're a sick man."

"Possibly."

He didn't move closer. That made it much harder to blame him for the warmth climbing my neck.

"How exactly would you warm it?" he asked.

I lowered the duvet enough to glare.

"Maybe you should beg."

I expected him to laugh.

Instead, Dante Moretti, who could silence a room with one look, softened his voice.

"Please, Jamie. Would you kiss me?"

My ears burned.

"You actually said please."

"You asked."

"I wasn't serious."

"Then say no. Nothing changes."

I searched his face for the trick.

There was none I could find.

"What about my job?" I asked.

"Separate. Completely."

"My father's debt?"

"Separate from that too."

I wanted to believe him. I wasn't certain I did.

But I knew what I wanted in that moment, and the knowledge was almost embarrassing.

"One kiss," I said.

"One kiss," he agreed.

I caught the collar of his sleep shirt before my courage could escape.

His lips were warm, despite his ridiculous complaint.

The kiss was brief and careful. I pulled away first, breathing harder than I should have been.

"There," I said. "Medical emergency resolved."

"Remarkable treatment."

"Don't get used to it."

He smiled, and something in my chest twisted.

I leaned forward again.

This time, I didn't pretend it was an accident.

He met me halfway. The second kiss lingered, then deepened when I tugged him closer.

For a few seconds, the storm, the contract, and the terrible house all seemed very far away.

I forgot the proper shape of a thought.

When I needed air, I tapped his shoulder. He released me at once.

I stared at him, flushed and furious with myself.

"You said your tongue was cold."

"Not anymore."

"You are unbearable."

"So I've been told."

I hid my face against his chest before he could see me smiling.

His heartbeat was quicker than I expected.

That was satisfying.

"Your shoulder," I remembered, pulling back.

"Still attached."

"Don't make me regret bandaging it."

"Too late?"

"Extremely."

He settled carefully onto his uninjured side and opened his arm without reaching for me.

I considered the space between us.

Then I moved into it.

"This doesn't mean I trust you," I said.

"I know."

"And tomorrow, we're talking about my father."

"Yes."

"No evasions."

"No evasions."

His arm curved around me. The gesture felt less like a trap than an invitation I could leave whenever I chose.

"Good night, sweetheart," he murmured.

"Don't call me that."

"Good night, Jamie."

I listened to his breathing slow.

For the first time since the bankruptcy, I let my eyes close without counting everything I'd lost.

Before sleep took me, I remembered the boy I'd been three weeks earlier.

That Jamie would have laughed at the idea of sharing a bed with Dante Moretti.

He would have called it a scandal, a disaster, a story too ridiculous to survive breakfast.

But that Jamie had never stood outside a locked mansion with nowhere else to go.

He had never watched his family name vanish from a bank account overnight.

And he had never heard a dangerous man ask permission for something as ordinary as a kiss.

I touched the edge of Dante's bandage, checking that it remained dry.

"Still awake?" he murmured.

"Unfortunately."

"Thinking?"

"Dangerous hobby."

"Tell me tomorrow."

"Only if you tell me about Dad."

"I will."

I wanted that promise to be enough. For tonight, it was all I had.

I must have slept, because the next sound reached me through a dream.

A sharp crack.

Then another.

Dante was awake before I understood what I'd heard.

He slid from the bed, took the pistol from his nightstand, and moved between me and the door.

A voice shouted somewhere downstairs.

Glass shattered.

"Dante?"

His face had changed completely.

The man who'd asked for a kiss was gone. The king of this house had returned.

"Stay behind me," he said.

And outside our bedroom, someone screamed.