Her eyes are wide open, the white surrounds the perfect-circle irises completely. But she cannot turn to meet his gaze. She cannot breath. She cannot move, cannot blink.

Cannot? Or will not? She doesn’t know.

Only that she can feel his stare boring down on her—unlike the natural heat that welcomes her, his stare is much more insistent and rough and inhuman—like the same way his blunt, square fingertips sink into her flesh, pinning her in place and motionless.

A sick, sticky lump frosts at her throat, dripping poisonous lead down her esophagus.

He bends—the material of his clothes crinkles,

Hot breath fans her temple, a slick kiss burns her skin.

“I know you’re awake,” he whispers, trailing the tip of his tongue down the curve of her ears. Her pulse flutters against her skin—against his hand. He chuckles. “Rest some more.”

He buries his nose in her ashen-white locks and inhales her scent deeply as though he’d be intoxicated by it alone.

And then he leaves. Leaving a gust of chill air

billowing after.

She wills her eyelids to screw tight.

A sob escapes her lips.

She realizes that

her fingers are shaking, despite being fisted in the sheets.

In fact,

her whole body is shaking.

And she cannot stop it at all.