Page 166 of Rosetti Family New York

"Thank you," I whisper, not exactly sure what I'm thanking him for.

"Don't mention it," he replies casually.

I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the day's weight crashing over me like a heavy sheet. The door clicks shut behind him, and his footsteps fade away until I'm left alone with my thoughts.

My head hits the pillow, and soon exhaustion drags me down into sleep, into a mingled dreamscape where images flicker: Maddy's face, a cold concrete wall, Rafaele Rosetti's eyes as blue as a winter dawn.

The crisp panic doesn't hit until well after midnight.

It's a room of stifling shadows, draped thick on the floor, heavy on my chest. I wake up gagging. Her name is caught like bile in my throat. Maddy. My body feels glued to the sheets, the mattress quicksand beneath me. Her eyes, still and cold. I'm dying right there with her. I roll off the bed, gasping, skin burning. Each heartbeat is an echo of her name. It swallows me whole. Maddy.

I sit on the floor, heart thrumming. It's so dark. Too quiet. The air is crushing my lungs, and I have to drag in breath after breath. I can still see her. Hair splayed out on the concrete. Her favorite feather necklace, silver against red. That's when the scream comes, tearing out of my throat. It sounds raw. Shredded. I shove my fist against my mouth.

The sheets cling to me, soaked in sweat. I rip them away, crawl across the floor, but the whole room is full of her. I press my palms to my ears, squeezing my eyes shut. I can't block her out. She's there with me, and she's not. There's just emptiness. I'm so fucking alone.

I stumble to my feet, tripping over the tangled sheets. My skin is on fire, fever-bright. It's burning the life out of me. I crash through the door and out into the hall.

The house is dark, except for a faint light somewhere in the distance. It's cold and empty, and my breath echoes against the walls. I clutch the blanket to my chest, drag it behind me like a ghost. I feel like one. Nothing but a haunted, hollow thing.

I keep moving, legs unsteady beneath me. There's nothing but shadow, just room after room of it. It presses against me, sharp as bone. Her name beats like blood through me. I whisper it between breaths. Maddy. But it's not enough. Not loud enough. Not even real.

Then, somehow, I find a door. It's closed, but that doesn't stop me. I twist the knob, pull it open, and there he is. I don't even know if I'm more terrified or relieved.

Rafaele.

His back is to me. The covers barely pull over his shoulders, as if even in sleep he can't stand to feel trapped. The room smells like him, warm and sharp, and I can taste it in the back of my throat. It fills my mouth.

I take a step inside, dragging the blanket along. My fingers tremble on the doorknob, and I let go before I lose my nerve. The door swings shut behind me, and the click is loud. I almost turn around, almost leave, but then I remember Maddy's eyes. The way they looked. Cold and empty, but seeing everything.

He hasn't moved, hasn't heard me yet. His breathing is steady, shoulders rising and falling with it. I stare for a long time, waiting for courage to fill me up. It doesn't. It's a hole that never gets full. So I take the coward's way instead.

I slip into bed next to him, under the edge of his blanket. He's on his stomach, face buried in the pillow. His hair spills across it like ink, and my fingers itch to touch it. To touch him. Anything to know I'm not the only one still breathing.

His back is wide, and there's no softness to him, not even in sleep. I hover there, wanting to press myself against him, wanting to disappear, wanting—

"What the hell?"

He's already twisting around. I stay still, caught like a kid sneaking in after curfew. I want to melt into the mattress. Want it to swallow me.

"Sloane?" My name sounds wrong coming from him. Too intimate. "What the hell are you doing?"

I'm still shaking. I wish I weren't, but my body hasn't caught up with my brain yet. It feels brittle. "I couldn't sleep," I say. It sounds stupid. "I thought maybe—"

"Go back to your room." He's all the way awake now. Pissed, brows drawn together in a hard line.

"Neither should you," I shoot back, before I can stop myself.

It's true. He's like some dark god of war, out of place in the mundane space of a bedroom. I don't understand my own reaction – I should be terrified of him, running away, not climbing into his bed. But there's something about him that draws me in, that makes me feel safer than I should.

He sits up, all sharp edges. I don't move, and I can see him processing it. Measuring how stubborn he thinks I'll be. His bare chest is a landscape of lean muscle, tattoos, and faint scars, illuminated by the dim light filtering through the blinds. The sight of him makes my mouth go dry, sends my heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.

"Out," he says. "Now."

His voice is low and dangerous, but I don't care. There's something else there too – a flicker of heat in his eyes when they rake over me, lingering for a beat too long.

"I had a nightmare," I say.

It's more than that, but I don't know how to explain it. His proximity is intoxicating, a drug I shouldn't want but can't seem to resist.