SIMONE'S POV
I woke to the sound of my own name being whispered like a devotion.
My eyes flew open, and the first thing I saw was Nicholas Stravkos sitting in the chair beside his bed, his head tilted back, lips slightly parted in sleep.
His usually perfect hair was messy, his shirt wrinkled, and there were dark circles under his eyes that spoke of days without rest.
But it was what he held in his hands that made my breath catch—a leather-bound book, his finger still marking a page, as if he had fallen asleep while reading to me.
'Reading to me.'
The memory crashed back into pieces. His voice, soft and pleasant, was speaking Italian words I didn't understand but that had wrapped around me like silk.
The gentle touch of fingers brushing hair from my fevered forehead.
