Mathias woke with his muscles locked, a residual tension that made his body feel like a weapon left out in the rain to rust. His first sensation was the silk of her gown under his palm. It wasn't a comfort; it was a jolt of nausea. He realized he had surrendered control, sinking into a void he hadn't authorized.
He lifted his head with a slow, pained deliberation. His eyes, webbed with broken red veins, found Olivia. She sat there with the terrifying stillness of marble—one hand gripping a book, the other buried in his hair like a handler keeping a tether on a caged animal. She didn't look like a wife waiting for her husband to stir; she looked like a sentry watching for the first sign of a relapse.
"Olivia...?" Her name left his throat like a dry rasp, a sound he barely recognized.
She didn't smile. She didn't flinch. "Finally," she said, her voice stripped of any warmth. "I was beginning to wonder when you'd stop trying to crush my ribs in your sleep."
