The ruined warehouse echoed with the clang of steel and the splintering of wood as the battle raged on. Dust hung thick in the air, lit by the flickering firelight of a destroyed oil drum. She hurled a broken chair leg at him—missed by inches—and followed it up with a wild, angry swing of her sword. Dante ducked, laughing, blood on his lip and amusement in his eyes.

“Getting tired already, sweetheart?” he taunted, voice ragged from exertion.

“I hate you,” she snarled, sweat clinging to her brow, strands of hair plastered to her cheek. “You’re arrogant, loud, reckless—”

“Devilishly handsome. Don't leave that part out.” he cut in with a smirk, leaning back against the wall as he caught his breath. He was sitting now, one leg stretched out, the other bent, his arm draped lazily over his knee.

Dante groaned, leaned his head back against the wall, and grinned through the pain. “Yeah... I think I’m in love.”