The quiet peace of the evening didn't survive the night.
It is late, very late. The apartment is pitch black, save for the pale moonlight spilling through the bedroom window.
I am sitting on the edge of the mattress. My legs are gone. I can no longer feel the sheets beneath me. I am floating inches above the bed, a ghost anchored only by my focus on the man sleeping beside me.
Ronan is thrashing violently. The sheets are tangled around his legs. He is sweating, his face contorted in a deep, agonizing grimace.
"No," he mutters, his voice a hoarse, panicked rasp in the dark. "No, please. Wait."
He twists, his hands grasping blindly at the empty space beside him on the mattress—the space where my physical body should be.
"Seraphina," he gasps out, the name tearing from his throat like a
