I was here. Not there.
Not in the bunker. Not in the room. Not with Ruslan.
Just here. Alive. Barely.
My breathing hitched.
I forced my hands down slowly, pressing them against my thighs.
Trying to ground myself. Trying to remember where I was.
What was real.
The edges of the world came back into focus.
And when I looked up—he was still there.
Vincenzo.
Standing exactly where he had been before I fell asleep.
Leaning against the table.
Arms crossed. Motionless. Watching me.
His expression unreadable.
How long had I been trapped in that nightmare?
Minutes? Seconds? Or some distorted stretch of time my mind couldn’t measure?
Long enough for him to see it all.
Long enough for him to witness me fracture.
The realization hit like ice water.
Sharp. Humiliating. Inescapable.
Shame flared under my skin, hotter than the fear, hotter than the dream itself.
I reacted before thought could catch up.
My hands yanked the duvet over my head, burying myself in the fabric.
It swallowed me whole.
I curled in, folding into myself, shrinking smaller, tighter.
A futile attempt to disappear—into the mattress, the sheets, the shadows, anywhere that might hide me from his gaze, from his awareness.
Even here, in this cocoon of cotton and dark, I could feel him—Vincenzo.
The weight of his presence, silent and controlled, pressing just beyond the duvet.
Watching. Judging.
My chest tightened, heart hammering like it could shatter ribs.
