Dante looked down at the little warrior princess in his arms, his little storm, and felt something shift inside him, fall, click into place, locked tight. With the names of both women who had protected their children in their own ways—his mother and Amara’s — Tempest was a wrinkly, scrawny little thing, with a head full of dark hair and eyes squinted closed, looking nothing like the babies he saw in the media. He’d never seen anything more beautiful.
