The first thing I notice is the ceiling.
Again.
This one I know by heart—dark beams, recessed lights, the faint shadow of the chandelier in the hallway beyond.
My head pounds.
My shoulder throbs where that gloved hand clamped down. My palms sting when I flex them; tiny cuts gripe against the cool sheet.
Villa linens.
His bed.
Back in hell.
I bolt upright too fast.
The room tilts, slides, and rights itself.
I’m in one of the guest suites, not his room. The curtains are half‑drawn; late morning light seeps in, painting the edges of the furniture.
Someone put me in a fresh T‑shirt. One of mine, at least. My jeans are folded on the chair. Bandages wrap my palms.
I rip at them on reflex.
The door swings open.
“Don’t,” a familiar voice says.
Dante.
He steps in and shuts the door
