Bella had been in cages before.
She had been locked away, beaten, broken, forgotten.
But this?
This was different.
Because the man standing in front of her—the man who had once loved her, the man who had once been her mate—
He wasn't her captor.
He was her consequence.
Dante stood in the dimly lit cell, his broad shoulders tense, his blue eyes burning.
The air between them was thick, suffocating, drowning them both in something old and raw and painful.
Bella had spent three years pretending this didn't exist.
But now?
There was no running.
No escaping.
Just this.
Him.
Her.
And the ruin they had made of each other.