POV RUBY
The silence in the room wasn’t empty anymore; it was screaming. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the embers of the fire die out. My hands were shaking—not from the cold, but from a familiar, jagged buzzing beneath my skin. It was the "Old Guest" returning. The part of my brain that didn't belong to the studious, calm Ruby Lane who restored Renaissance paintings.
In my suitcase, hidden in a false lining that Nevan’s men had missed, was a small bottle of Quetiapine. I hadn't taken a pill in four days. I could feel the boundaries of my ego softening, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.
"You're doing it again," Nevan’s voice sliced through the dark. He wasn't asleep. He was sitting up now, his shadow cast large and menacing against the headboard. "You're staring
