Ali, in that room surrounded by books, cushions, and silence, Isadora wrote.

Seated at the dark wooden desk, her feet bare, her hair in a loose bun, she wore only one of Athos's large shirts—white, soft, carrying his scent mixed with her own. Her fingers glided over the keys with familiarity, but not without emotion. Each word was a heartbeat. Each sentence, a memory tattooed beneath the skin.

"Seven nights," she typed.

"Seven abysses. Seven rebirths."

She sighed.

Took a sip of the ...