Chapter 18 Eighteen

• The garden is quiet except for the crackling of the fire. Dante sits close to me on the wrought-iron bench, his arm brushing mine. The flames paint his face in orange and shadow. I watch how the light dances across his sharp features, softening them. Night is falling around us, and with it comes a strange courage I haven't felt before.
• "It's beautiful out here," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
• Dante nods, his eyes fixed on the fire. "I come here to think. The quiet helps clear my mind."