Page 27 of Inked & Bloodbound

“I… I think so. What do you want me to tell her?”

“She’s been tearing the house apart looking for some papers. Tell her to check the wooden chest in the attic—the one with my daddy’s war medals. There’s a document in there she needs, for the house. And Blondie? There’s a letter for her too. I wrote it a few years back, just in case. It should bring her some peace.”

The emotion in his voice makes my throat tight. “I’ll tell her.”

“Thank you, darlin’. You’re a good one. You take care of yourself, now.”

His presence fades, and before more voices can find me, I grab the edges of the pane and slam the window shut. I back away from the glass, watching the swirling lights spin and twirl. Paloma said to take it slow, and that’s about the limit for me. The further I get, the more frenzied they become, and some peel off and begin to hurl themselves against the window as if they’re trying to get my attention, filling the room with tiny pitter-patter sounds as they make contact.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “No more. Not tonight. I’ll come back.”

I take three paces back, and the floor vanishes under me, causing me to fall through nothingness until I violently jolt back into my body. It feels like being ripped between realities. I blink and adjust to the light, my breathing hard and heavy. When I touch my hand to my face, I realize it’s soaking wet with tears.

Cassini is watching me with gentle curiosity, his head cocked a little to the side. He offers a small smile as he blows out the candles. “How was that?”

“That was amazing,” I say breathlessly. “I met a patient of mine. He asked me to give a message to his wife, and it felt so clear. So real.”

“You feeling okay?” he probes. “How’s your head? Do you need anything?”

I place my hand over my heart and feel it thudding in my chest. “I’m fine. I just feel weird. Like I’m not really here yet.”

“Try grounding yourself,” he says, picking the bolsita up and placing it in the palm of my hand. I weigh it there as he clasps my other hand in his. “It helps with maintaining contact with reality. You just need to breathe and count. Find three things you can see, threeyou can hear, three you can touch. Count them and say it out loud for me.”

I look around the room, searching for the familiar. “I can see a Dolly Parton vinyl. A golden pineapple and a black candle,” I say between breaths.

“Good,” Cassini soothes. “Keep going.”

“I can hear the cicadas chirping, a car backing up outside, and uh…my breath. I can hear my breath.” My body is starting to calm down, and when I gaze into Cassini’s eyes, he nods for me to continue. “I can feel the soft cushions of the couch under my body, the gentle breeze from the air con on my face, and…” I reach out and grab Cassini. “I can feel your hand and it’s…it’s ice-cold.”

“That’s great. You did great,” he says, pulling away, but I grip his wrist and yank him toward me.

“Seriously, you’re freezing. Is this unusual for you?” I ask, cupping his hand between mine and rubbing it.

“No, it’s not.”

“Well, not to be a buzzkill, but you should get yourself checked out. Maybe ask your doctor about Raynaud’s syndrome. Poor circulation can be a sign of underlying?—”

“It’s not that.” He pulls his hand away gently. “Trust me, it’s fine.”

He glances down at his watch, something with a worn leather strap and an elaborate gold face, and mutters something about leaving. I know for a fact he hasn’t been here an hour, but he’s visibly anxious to get out of here. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, maybe grabbing him? Being too nosy about his health?

Before I can apologize, he’s already up and walking toward the door. “We can try again tomorrow night. This was good progress.”

I walk him out in a daze, feeling strangely reluctant to let him leave. At the threshold, I turn to face him.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “For all of this. I know it’s a lot, and I’m probably getting all this wrong, but…I really appreciate it. It’s just gonna take me some time to get used to the new normal.”

Without really thinking about it, I rise up on my toes and kiss his cheek, returning the kiss he gave when he entered. But this time, hedoesn’t just accept it. His hand comes up to cup my face, and he turns so that when I pull back, we’re gazing directly into each other’s eyes.

The air between us shifts as he leans down and presses his lips to mine, holding them there for a few seconds. It’s not a passionate kiss—no tongues, no moving, just the pressure of his cold mouth against my warmth. Soft and careful and perfect.

As he pulls away, his eyes half closed, his lips still pressed together, there’s that voice again. Clear as if he’d spoken aloud:Dolce come il miele.

I hear it. But not in the room—it’s inside my head.

I pull back, breathless and confused, staring up at him, searching for answers.

What the fuck?