If there is any justice in the world, a God in heaven, or a devil in hell, Ugo will be in agony for all of eternity.
However, that thought doesn’t soothe me now. Nothing does when my mind attacks itself.
The nightmare has variations to it, but none that make me wake up with anything other than a throat hoarse from screaming, my body drenched in sweat, and my chest spasming with the rigorous beats of my heart. It tries to escape my ribcage, while I try to escape my mind.
In this particular version, Ugo grabs my upper arms and sneers down at me. I shouldn’t look away, wanting to show him that he’s not going to get the response he wants, but I end up averting my gaze to search for Carina. Usually she’s huddled in a corner, frozen and staring blankly ahead, yet this time I find her lying on the floor in a pool of blood. The crimson liquid creeps toward me, coming closer with every second, and every inch it covers is a deduction from her lifespan.
If she’s not already dead.
My anguish manifests in the screams that rip from my throat, as does the rage scorching my insides and charring my soul. It is blacker than soot and just as sordid. I grasp the material of Ugo’s shirt and shove him with all my might. When he doesn’t budge and just laughs in my face, I go ballistic, ready to fight him to the death.
Deep down I hope he kills me because I don’t want to live without my sister.
“Violetta.”
The sound of Ugo’s voice sends me deeper into the whirlwind of emotion I’m spiraling within. I shout at him, still unable to break from his tight hold. Futility tries to rear its head and I grit my teeth against the lamenting of my still-beating heart.
“Violetta.”
The deep baritone voicing my name is different, off in some way. I don’t stop my struggles even though exhaustion creeps along my limbs as I thrash about. My thoughts of vengeance and my fear of defeat are all-consuming. They fill my mind until I can’t distinguish one from the other, becoming nothing but a tangled web that prevents me from breaking free.
“Fuck, Violetta. Wake up.”
The note of concern is what finally breaks through the haze of terror coating me like tar. In all my nightmares, Ugo has never expressed any worry over me. Is this the newest level of torture my mind has planned?
Haven’t I suffered enough?
A slap to my face has my cheek stinging and my eyes fluttering open. I’m not able to see clearly until I blink away the tears blurring my vision, but when I do I’m disoriented.
This vision isnotwhat I expect my subconscious to create.
Tristano hovers above me with a troubled expression, his gaze searching mine, which gives me a glimpse of the stainless steel color that’s bright with unease. One of his large hands clutches the back of my head while the other palms my throbbing cheek, and his lips are pressed together.
I squint up at the latest figment of my imagination, trying to make sense of why he’s in my nightmare. “Tris…” The incomplete question ends on a crack and I swallow to try again. My voice is uncertain, not just from continuous disuse, but also because of…him.
“Tristano?”
I’m short on breath because of the intensity of his stare and the inquiry comes out as a mere whisper. But there's an undertone of something that’s akin to relief and maybe a hint of yearning. He rears back a tiny bit and blinks rapidly at me, now sharing in my confusion.
“Did I hear that correctly?” he murmurs.
My mind scrambles to process not only the question he asked, but the idea that this might actually be reality…
“Violetta, nod if you understand me.”
I not only understand Tristano, but I see him, hear him, andfeelhim. However, I move my head up and down in answer, although I have yet to be absolutely certain this is real, thatheis real. Regardless, his proximity to me is overwhelming. I’ve never experienced being held in this way or having a man so close that I can feel his breath skim my face or nearly taste the minty flavor of his mouth.
Maybe this is really happening…
I don’t notice I’m shaking until the heat of him seeps into my body and slowly warms me wherever our skin touches. Am I trembling because I’m chilled from the horrific images that are slowly disappearing? Or because of Tristano’s nearness?
Both.
“I need you to tell me you’re alright,” he says. When I nod again he studies me, his gaze sweeping over my face while he moves his thumb slowly across the mound of my cheek. If I didn’t know any better, I might think that tender caress was an apology for slapping me. “Are you?” he asks.
I shrug. It’s the most honest response I can come up with.
“What happened?”
