THEODORE'S POV
Beatrice is sleeping.
Her hair is tangled across my shoulder, dark strands tickling the side of my neck. Her bare shoulder is covered in marks — bite marks, bruises where my mouth pressed too hard against her skin. The hollow of her throat carries a red mark that is unmistakably mine.
I am not dreaming.
The pain in my chest confirms it. The bullet wound. The antiseptic smell underneath her jasmine. The fluorescent light buzzing above us. The hospital bed that is too narrow for two people and yet somehow held us both through the night.
This is not a dream.
My fingers tighten around her shoulder. Tight. Possessive. The grip of a man who is holding something he knows he has to let go of and is not ready to let go of yet.
What happened.
I close my eyes. Force myself to reconstruct.
