We’re still here. Still Caterina Corvo, and Domenico Rossi.
“You are my endgame,” I murmur. “Always, Cat.”
12 – Caterina
Iwake up with a gasp.
The room is dark, the low buzz of an air conditioning unit the only noise as I stare at the ceiling. My chest lifts up and down as if I’ve been running.
Not there.
I’m not there.
Swallowing, I scrunch my eyes closed and force out a breath before I turn to my right.
My body goes rigid.
Not the same.
This is not the same.
But I can’t look away from the bare expanse of skin that greets me.
A black canopy.
A bare back.
The noise that slips from my lips sounds more animal than human. Nausea surges, and I scramble off the bed, backing up until I hit the wall and slide down.
On the bed, Dom shifts, his hand reaching out to the empty space as he turns to face my direction. I hold my breath, waiting until he settles.
He doesn’t need my nightmares to add to his own. Not tonight.
My head thumps against the wall as I look to the window. I slept for a few hours, at least – more than I’ve slept since we left for Sicily, the darkness outside telling me that we probably missed dinner.
I fight my own breathing, fight to calm down, but the dizziness in my head only grows until I’m shaking.
I need air.
I stumble for the door, only stopping to scoop my daggers off the floor before darting blindly down the hall.
The world outside is silent in that way that you can only hear at night. The witching hour, some call it. I invade that quiet space, my breathing ragged and harsh as I head outside. The warmth of the Italian air kisses my face, brushes away the stickiness of those panicked minutes as the nausea clutching my stomach begins to recede.
I take a few more steps out into the courtyard, looking around at the view that stretches for miles in front of me.
The ocean greets me on one side, dark and glittering beneath the few stars that dot the clear night sky. On the other, rows of trees stretch as far as my eyes can see, perfectly planted in patterns and blooming with the small white flowers that will eventually turn to olives, ready to be harvested late in the autumn.
I start walking in that direction, gripping my knives tightly as I weave in and out, losing myself in the familiar dry, woody scent. It smells like memories – like long, hot summers spent runningthrough the groves at our own estate, several hours to the South in Ragusa.
A lifetime ago.
I start to pick up speed, my feet padding against the hard ground until I’m running, flying over twigs and leaves that scratch the soles of my feet. I race through the grove, zigzagging between lines of trees until I have to stop, my lungs screaming for air.
I wait only as long as I need to before I take off again, my hair catching on low-hanging branches. My energy is sapped far too soon, and I slow to a walk, panting.
The trees rustle, and my hand tightens around my knives. Slowly, I slide one into my palm.
I spin, my arm shooting out, and the edge of my daggerbarelymisses Luc’s face as he slips out of reach as smoothly as he used to on the practice mats.
