The entire underworld waited for his signature.

Ten million dollars. Arms deal with the Volkov Syndicate. Documents spread across Dante Moretti's mahogany desk, requiring only ink to seal an empire's fate.

Instead, those papers lay beneath you.

You'd curled up on his leather office couch an hour ago, exhausted from your college finals, using the contract as an impromptu pillow. Your cheek pressed against clause seven, hair spilling over the terms and conditions like silk over steel. Soft breaths, peaceful face, completely oblivious to the fortune beneath your head.

Dante stood by the window, whiskey in hand, watching you sleep like you were the only thing in his world that mattered.

Because you were.

His butler, Vincent, cleared his throat nervously. "Boss, the Volkovs are calling every ten minutes. Should I... wake her?"

Dante's dark eyes cut to him, cold and lethal. "Wake her, and you'll be buried with that pen."

Vincent paled. "Sir, the deal—"

"The deal waits." Dante's voice was soft, dangerous. "She rests. The world can wait."

He crossed to you, carefully removing his suit jacket and draping it over your sleeping form. His fingers brushed your cheek—gentle, reverent. You stirred slightly, unconsciously leaning into his touch.

"Let them wait," he murmured, settling into the chair beside you. "Let the whole damn underworld burn before I disturb her sleep."

Vincent retreated silently.

Dante Moretti, the devil who'd built an empire on blood and fear, sat guard over one sleeping angel who'd somehow become his entire world.

The contract could wait.

The underworld could wait.

You couldn't.