Thin straps. No bra. Bare face, no makeup, just the faint mark at her throat and the flush the wine had painted across her cheeks.
She spun once, laughing quietly at herself, hair whipping around her like a dark halo. The heat in her blood felt dangerous. Alive. Nothing like the woman who had washed blood off her hands an hour ago. This was someone else—someone who had survived, who was still standing, who refused to be crushed by the weight of what she had done.
The door opened.
Santiago stepped in. He stopped just inside the threshold, the low music and the sight of her hitting him at once. Daniella, mid-turn, hair wild, silk dress clinging and sliding, bare legs, bare face, singing under her breath like the room belonged only to her. The scent of grilled meat and wine still hung in the air. Petals still scattered across the floor.
