Matteo’s shouting. Run.
Too late.
The cliff swallows me whole.
I fall.
Down into the black mouth of the sea.
Down into silence.
Down into nothing.
I jolt awake,the scream tearing from my throat but dying behind clenched teeth.
The dark is thicker than before, alive. The storm claws at the windows, rattling the glass. Air hums against my skin. Sweat slicks my body, cold and shaking.
A hand slams over my mouth.
Panic detonates.
I thrash, sound trapped in my chest, fists hitting something solid, someone solid.
No. No. No.
I fight like survival is the only instinct left.
Another hand seizes my wrists, pins me to the bed. My vision blurs with tears. I bite down hard, taste skin, salt and metal.
“Little lamb.”
The voice cuts through the storm. Low. Urgent. Familiar.
Matteo.
I freeze.
The fight drains out of me all at once. Air rushes in too fast, choking. The hand slips from my mouth.
He’s there kneeling beside me, eyes wide, chest heaving.
“It’s me,” he says, voice rough and broken. “I’m sorry. I had to see you.”
His hands cradle my face, heat bleeding into my skin.
The fear uncoils, slow and trembling. Not gone. Just quieter.
Because it’s him.
Because Matteo Messina is here.
And somehow, that means I might make it through another night.
My hands clutch his sweatshirt, fists curling in the fabric as I drag him down to me.
He doesn’t fight it.
He lowers himself, slow and careful, his weight pressing the mattress. Like he’s afraid he’ll break me if he breathes too hard.
