I slammed my unsliced palm against the polished kitchen table. “That son of a bitch—Tristan.” My breath came in short bursts. “There’s no more time to wait. We start looking for him immediately. Olivia needs us more than ever.”
Chapter 6
Olivia
My evening in Malik’s home was a whirlwind of opposing extremes—at once ravenous yet too exhausted to eat, bone-weary yet unable to relax. I was drawn to Malik’s presence, then repelled by his darkness, remembering my husband and the life I had left behind.
Images of Roman wrapped around me like a phantom touch as I drifted from the bath to the dining room. I felt he was with me, but when I reached for him, my fingers found only empty air.
I ate, but I don’t remember what was served.
I spoke, but I don’t recall what I said.
At last, when I could no longer keep my eyelids open, I was led to my bedroom. Sleep claimed me the moment my head met the pillow.
I curled into Malik’s soft, luxurious bedding, the scent of lavender mingling with something exotically feral. And I dreamed.
“Mama! Mama!”
My son’s piercing cries jolted my heart into high alert. I looked up from the garden, where my hands had been buried in the dark earth, pulling weeds.
Ahead, my dream husband and son struggled to carry a man down the dusty road.
I sprinted across the garden loam, my sandals slapping against the ground. “What happened? Who is this?”
“We found him barely breathing,” my husband said, his voice strained. “But he’s alive. With your healing skills, I’m sure he’ll make it.”
His arms trembled under the man’s weight, his muscles straining to keep him aloft.
Beside him, my son wrestled with the man’s legs, repositioning his grip with effort.
“Set him down,” I instructed, urgency threading my tone. “Right here.”
They tried to ease him to the ground, but he slipped from their grasp, collapsing with a heavy thud.
A groan rumbled from his chest. Then, his eyes snapped open?—
I found myself staring into a deep and endless galaxy of shifting colors, swirling from dusky blue to shadowed green.
A gaze both haunting and familiar.
“Easy,” I murmured, pressing a hand against the man’s sweat-dampened shoulder. “My husband found you, but you’re alive. You’re going to be all right. Can you remember your name?”
His lips parted, breath shallow. “My name’s… Eyan Malik,” he wheezed. “I’m in so much pain… my head… hurts…” His eyelids fluttered closed.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, placing my palm against his forehead. A sigh shuddered through his body, and he sank into stillness, his breath evening out.
I awoke disoriented, my mind tangled between dream and reality. The warmth of the bedroom wrapped around me, its softness unfamiliar. It took a moment to remember where I was and to recognize the safety of my surroundings. Then, sleep dragged me under once more.
And I dreamed.
I was giving birth.
The room was dark, lit only by the glow of a single oil lamp. I lay on a bed, my body taut with exertion, my fingers crushing my husband’s hand as another contraction ripped through me.
Sweat poured down my face and chest, soaking the sheets beneath me.
“One more push, my love,” my husband urged, his voice tender. “Squeeze me as hard as you must.”
