BEATRICE'S POV
I don't remember falling asleep.
Lia forced me to eat something — soup, bread, a slice of something orange I didn't taste — and then made me lie down, and the moment my spine found the mattress my body folded inward and gave up the fight it had been fighting all day. One second I was staring at the ceiling with my fists curled under my chin. The next I was somewhere else.
I was dreaming.
A warm hand is stroking my cheek. Gentle. Unhurried. The kind of touch a person uses when what they are touching is precious to them, and they have all the time in the world to prove it.
Sunlight is spilling through a window I don't recognize. I bury my face deeper into the pillow because I don't want to open my eyes yet. Whoever is touching me is chuckling now — low, rough, amused.
"Don't laugh. My body is sore because of you."
