Killian still dreamed about Severine's death.
In the suffocating dark of his subconscious, the nightmare never varied. It was a visceral experience where the universe stripped away his anchor.
The crimson would coat his fingers. The heat scorched his soul until he screamed without a sound.
He would reach out, his hands clawing through a dissolving reality, grasping nothing but empty, echoing air.
Only when he was wide awake—looking at her, touching her, feeling the delicate rise and fall of her chest—would the heavy semblance of reality finally crash back into him.
He had accidentally fallen asleep beside Severine. Now, his body convulsed, a violent tremor passing through his shoulders as he was jolted awake by that same terrible dream.
His chest heaved. A cold sweat dampened the collar of his shirt.
Killian sat up abruptly. His crimson eyes were wide and hyper-focused on the sleeping beauty in the dim lighting of the hidden room.
