"The Scandinavian protocols need your approval," Everett says, crossing the room to drop a folder on my desk. His silver eyes rake over me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. "And you look terrible."
"Thanks. You're a real confidence booster."
"I'm serious." He plants his hands on the desk and leans forward. "When's the last time you slept?"
I pretend to consider this. "What day is it?"
"Nick."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." His voice drops lower, taking on an edge I don't like. "You haven't been fine for months. And I think we both know why."
A chill creeps down my back. I meet his eyes, trying to figure out what he's holding back. There's worry, sure, but underneath it, something sharper. Like he knows more than he's letting on.
"Do we?" I ask carefully.
He straightens, and for a moment I think he's going to tell me. Whatever thoughts he's been carrying, whatever information he's been holding back, he'll finally lay it out in the open. But then his jaw tightens and he shakes his head.
"Just take care of yourself. That's all I'm saying."
He leaves before I can press him on it, the door closing with a soft click that feels too final.
I drop into my chair and glare at the folder. Scandinavian protocols. Because that's what really matters. Charts, schedules, making sure the magic lands where it's supposed to. Like any of it means a damn thing right now.
It's not the woman I can't stop thinking about. Not the way her skin felt under my hands, or the sound of her laugh, or the look she gave me when I touched her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I flip open the folder and try to read, but the words blur and slide around, refusing to make sense. My mind keeps wandering back to a bakery that smells like cinnamon and home, to a voice I can still hear if I close my eyes.
By the time I finally drag myself to bed, it's way past midnight. The aurora is out in full force, green and purple streaks twisting across the sky like they're showing off. I lie on top of the covers, too tired to bother with anything else, and just watch.
Eventually, sleep drags me under, rough and fast, like getting pulled out by a riptide.
And then I'm dreaming.
Except it doesn't feel like a dream. It's too sharp, too real, like I've stumbled sideways into something that's waiting for me whether I'm awake or not.
Samantha.
She's sitting on the floor, her back pressed against a door, and she's crying. Not the gentle tears of sadness but the kind of sobbing that tears through a person, that shakes them apart from the inside out. Her hands are wrapped around her stomach, protective and desperate, and I can feel her fear like it's my own.
Something's wrong. Not just wrong, but off in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I reach for her, but my hands go right through. I'm just a ghost, stuck watching while she rocks back and forth, whispering things I can't make out.
The scene jerks, and now she's in the bakery. There's a man with her. Too perfect, too smooth, moving with a kind of precision that makes my blood run cold. He reaches for her, for her stomach, and the wrongness coming off him is almost enough to choke on.
No. No, no, no.
Another lurch, and there's an old woman at a table, staring at Samantha's belly with eyes that look straight through skin and bone. The air feels heavy, dark, like something rotten is hiding just out of sight. Even in the dream, it makes my skin crawl.
Samantha's terrified. I can feel it pouring off her, raw and visceral. She's in danger, and I'm not there, and she's so afraid.
I jerk awake, heart hammering so hard it hurts.
The room is dark, except for the aurora bleeding in through the window. I lie there, sucking in air, telling myself it was just a nightmare. Stress, guilt, too many months missing someone I shouldn't even be thinking about. That's all it is. Or so I try to believe.
But the feeling won't let go. Deep down, I know it wasn't just my brain working out old regrets. It was real. Or close enough to real that it doesn't matter.
