DANTE
Light. Too bright. Too fucking much.
I try to turn away and my body locks up. My throat is raw, stripped, like someone took sandpaper to the inside of it. My ribs ache with every breath. My skull throbs in time with my pulse, pressure building behind my eyes until they water.
But there’s a thread. A lifeline cutting through the wreckage.
A hand in mine. Small. Warm. Fingers wrapped around my palm like letting go isn’t an option. Like she’s been holding on for hours. Days. However long I’ve been wherever I am.
I know those fingers. Know the shape of them.
Tesoro.
The word tears loose before anything else. Before her name. Before the pain. Involuntary. A reflex I couldn’t stop if I tried.
Cazzo.Even thinking costs me.
Cassia.
I force my eyes open.
She’s there. Right there. Sitting in a chair pulled close to the bed, hunched forward, her forehead resting on our joined hands. Hair tangled. Mascara smeared beneath her eyes in darkhalf-moons. Still wearing the dress from dinner, the dark fabric wrinkled, the hem stained with blood.
She hasn’t slept. That much is written across every inch of her.
My chest seizes. Wrenches apart. I don’t give it permission.
“Hi.” Broken. A whisper at best.
Her head snaps up. Her eyes find mine. Red-rimmed. Wet. Her lips part and her whole face crumbles.
“Hi.” Her voice cracks on the single syllable.
We stare at each other.
She’s here. She stayed.
“You scared me.” She says it like an accusation. Like I did it on purpose.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t do it again.”
“Okay.”
She laughs. Or sobs. Her shoulders jerk, her hand flies to her mouth, and the sound that comes out is wrecked. Raw.
Then she’s moving. Leaning forward. Pressing her forehead to my chest, and I feel her shoulders shake. Feel the dampness of tears soaking through the thin gown they’ve put me in.
Cristo.
I want to hold her. Want to wrap my arms around her and pull her close. My arms won’t listen. Dead weight pinned to the mattress.
I fight it. Grind my teeth until my jaw screams. Force my hand up one agonizing inch at a time. Every scrap of strength in this hollowed-out body poured into one motion.
My hand finds her hair. Rests there. Fingers tangling in the mess of it.
“Tesoro.” The word scrapes out like glass. “I’m here.”
