2

A breath of sound, curling through the air like smoke.

My skin prickled.

My fingers twitched against the sheets.

A dull ache throbbed at the base of my skull, deep and lingering, like an old wound reopening.

I forced my eyes open.

The ceiling above me swayed, the faint glow of my bedside lamp warping the edges.

My bedroom—too still, too quiet.

The shadows seemed thicker, pooling in the corners, stretching long fingers across the walls.

I reached for my phone.

3:12 AM.

Just a dream.

Or maybe the meds.

The doctors had warned me about side effects.

Nightmares.

Anxiety.

Auditory hallucinations.

Perfectly normal, they said.

Nothing about this felt normal.

I turned onto my side, and pain exploded across my ribs, sharp and immediate, dragging a strangled gasp from my throat.

My pulse slammed against my skin, my heartbeat fluttering out of control.

The accident.

Flashes hit me like static shocks.

The twisted metal.

The rain.

The weightless second before impact.

The silence after.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Breathe.

My name is Lena Moreau.

I’m twenty-six.

I’m an artist.

I’m fine.

Except I wasn’t.

2

LENA

I had moved to New Orleans four years ago, chasing a dream I could barely afford.

A single bedroom apartment in the Quarter, cluttered with canvases and half-finished sketches.

I made my living painting commissions—portraits, abstracts, anything people were willing to pay for.

On good months, I scraped by.

On bad months, Mira covered my rent.

Mira.

She’d been my best friend since college.

The only person I trusted.

After the accident, she’d practically moved in, making sure I ate, slept, took my meds.

But she had a life too—a new boyfriend, a job that actually paid well.

I couldn’t keep depending on her.

I was getting better.

I had to be.

I curled deeper beneath the blanket, my body stiff with cold.

The whisper wasn’t real.

Just stress.

Just my mind playing tricks.

Then I heard it again.

A soft, velvety murmur, slipping through the dark.

Closer this time.

“Lena.”

My stomach clenched.

I wasn’t alone.

3

CASSIAN

She heard me.

I watched her stir, her lashes fluttering, her lips parting on a shallow breath.

The faintest tremble ran through her body, a shiver just beneath the skin.

Beautiful.

She smelled of antiseptic and sleep, the sterile scent of hospitals still clinging to her.

But underneath—beneath the artificial cleanliness—I could smell something richer.

Something alive.

Fear.

She hadn’t seen me yet.

Not fully.

She wouldn’t.

Not yet.

I traced the curve of her cheek with a whisper of thought, not quite touching, but close enough for her body to react.

She shifted in her sleep, a furrow forming between her brows, her fingers twitching against the sheets.

I liked watching her like this—suspended between wakefulness and dreams.

A part of her already knew I was here.

The body always knows before the mind catches up.

I leaned closer, drinking in the sharp hitch of her breath.

My name was the first thing I had given her.

A gift.

A warning.

She would resist.

They always did.

At first.

4

LENA

The air had changed.

I could feel it.

The weight of it, pressing against my skin, thick and electric.

My heart pounded, blood roaring in my ears.

I wasn’t alone.

I forced myself to move, to sit up despite the protesting pain in my ribs.

The room swam, the shadows stretching and twisting in the dim light.

Nothing.

Just my apartment.

Just the same cramped walls, the half-finished paintings leaning against the easel, the pile of laundry I’d been meaning to fold.

Nothing.

I let out a shaking breath, running a hand over my face.

“Get a grip,” I whispered.

Silence.

Then—so soft, so close it felt like lips against my ear—

“Go back to sleep, Lena.”

I screamed.

5

LENA

The next day, I decided to spend the day painting in my apartment.

The brush glided over the canvas, streaking thick, moody strokes of crimson and obsidian.

 The colors bled into each other, chaotic and untamed, spreading like a wound refusing to close.

My fingers ached, stiff from gripping the brush too hard.

I had been painting for hours, yet I had no memory of starting.