Out of nowhere a whistle broke my sleep—piercing, deliberately designed to irritate.
A type of sound that pierces through your head and pulls your spirit back inside your body.
My eyelids peeled apart burdened by weights. Consciousness didn’t arrive softly; it imposed itself, grating against every aching spot, throughout my body. The room appeared blurred at the borders, as though it wasn’t completely alert either.
And there he was.
Dante stood at the foot of my bed with that bothersome whistle still pressed between his lips. He appeared alert, for someone who took pleasure in tormenting others before dawn. His attire was black tactical trousers, a black snug shirt clinging so tightly to his frame that I despised how my gaze caught details it shouldn’t. He genuinely looked like death p
