SLEEP HAD BECOME A BATTLEFIELD.
Every time Grayson's consciousness slipped away—whether from exhaustion, from the sedatives still lingering in his system, or from the relentless draining of his life force—Seryn was waiting.
Not in the violet-lit room where his physical body remained trapped.
In his dreams.
He'd found himself standing in the villa garden—the one where he and Mailah had spent some evenings talking. The Tuscan sunset painted everything in gold, the air smelled of jasmine, and Mailah was there.
Walking toward him in her wedding dress again.
Smiling.
Real.
"Grayson," she'd said, her voice exactly right—the slight rasp she got when tired, the warmth that carried even in single syllables. "I've been looking for you everywhere."
Relief had flooded through him so intensely it hurt. "Mailah. Thank god. I thought—"
