I woke with my chest heaving, sweat dampening the collar of my nightshirt. The dream was already slipping—images of fire and glass, Amelia’s laughter echoing like knives—but the terror still clung to me. I pushed the sheets back, pressing a shaky hand to my stomach, whispering to the silence, it was just a dream, it was just a dream.
And then I saw him.
Nate was standing in the doorway, one shoulder leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. The hallway light spilled around him, shadowing his face, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—were fixed on me with a stillness that made my throat tighten.
My pulse stuttered. “What are you doing here?” My voice came out smaller than I wanted, thin in the heavy quiet.
He didn’t answer right away. He stepped forward, slow, delibe
