Consciousness returns in slow, disorienting waves.
I'm in a bed, but it clearly isn't mine.
For starters, the sheets are impossibly soft, silky and cool against my skin—nothing like the slightly scratchy, store-brand cotton I've been using since I moved out of the apartment I shared with Liam. The room is dim, lit by a single lamp light. I can tell it's bigger than my entire apartment. It smells of clean linen, expensive perfume… Malachai's perfume.
He must've brought me here.
I struggle to sit up. A symphony of pain answers the movement. My ribs throb. My shoulders scream. My ankles and feet ache in a dull, persistent rhythm. My throat feels raw from screaming. And my head… my head feels like a fucking jack hammer did a demonstration on it.
I groan, pressing my palms to my temples as the memories crash over me.
