Chapter 17 Nightmare
The first scream didn’t sound human.
Sienna shot upright, her heart pounding, the echo still vibrating through the dark. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if it was real or just another dream tugging at her half-sleep. Then came the sound again low, rough, and strangled from down the hall.
Dante.
She didn’t think twice. She just moved with her bare feet against cold marble, her pulse loud in her ears. The hallway was dim, she pushed open his door and froze.
He was sitting upright, drenched in sweat, chest heaving like he’d been running for miles. His eyes were open, but he looked distant and trapped somewhere.
“Dante?” she whispered, stepping closer.
He flinched. “Don’t”
“It’s me,” she said quickly, her voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s just me.”
For a moment, he didn’t seem to recognize her. Then his focus returned, sharp and glassy, his breath shuddering as if he’d surfaced from deep water.
“Nightmare?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. He just wiped his palms over his face, as if trying to erase whatever he’d seen.
“I told you not to come in here,” he said finally, the edge still in his voice but weaker this time, worn down by exhaustion.
“I heard you shouting.”
“I wasn’t shouting.”
“You were.”
He looked away. “It’s fine now.”
But it wasn’t. She could see the tremor in his hands, the tautness in his shoulders. His body was a battlefield still healing, yet haunted.
“Here,” she said, crossing to his side. She reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, but his arm brushed hers as he reached for the glass too, and they both froze.
Her breath caught up not because of the touch, but because of the pause that followed. The space between them felt charged, alive. His skin was warm, his heartbeat unsteady beneath the thin layer of fabric.
He didn’t pull away. Neither did she.
“Drink,” she said softly.
He obeyed, the glass trembling slightly in his grip. When he handed it back, his fingers lingered on hers for a few seconds.
“You sound like her,” he murmured, barely audible.
Her breath hitched. “What?”
He blinked. “You sound like her.”
Then, he looked away. “She used to say things like that.”
“Who?”
He didn't respond. His gaze had drifted again, lost to whatever shadow clung to the edge of his dreams.
“Dante,” she said, but his eyes were already closed, his body slumping slightly as the exhaustion pulled him under again.
She stood there, unsure of what to do and torn between stepping closer and stepping back. Finally, she exhaled and helped him lie down carefully to avoid startling him.
His breathing evened out slowly. The tension in his jaw loosened. The nightmare, for now, had passed.
Sienna sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. The moonlight painted pale lines across his face, softening him in ways daylight never did.
Who was the lady he was referring to?
The question pressed at the edge of her thoughts, but she didn’t ask it aloud. Some wounds, she’d learned, only deepened when touched too soon.
She stood up quietly and left the room, closing the door behind her.
She didn’t sleep again that night. Instead, she sat by the kitchen window, staring at the black sea and the faint reflection of her own face in the glass. The wind outside made the world feel empty.
Maybe this was what he lived with every night, ghosts that never left, memories that bled into dreams until he couldn’t tell the difference.
She rubbed her arms against the chill, trying not to imagine what could turn a man like him into someone who screamed in his sleep.
By dawn, the sky was silver and still. She made coffee not for him, for herself while waiting for the sun to rise.
When she checked his room later, the bed was empty.
The window was open, the curtains moving in the early breeze. For a split second, panic surged through her chest, irrational but sharp. She hurried to the balcony, half-expecting to find him slumped, hurt or fallen.
Instead, she saw him below, by the edge of the terrace.
He was sitting in his wheelchair, facing the sea again with a sketchbook open on his lap, pencil moving slowly across the page.
She was relieved at first, then her brows furrowed.
She walked down the stone steps quietly, unsure if he even knew she was there. He didn’t turn around when she stopped behind him.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” she said softly.
“Morning to you too, Doctor.” His tone was lighter, but there was a hollowness underneath.
“You need rest after last night.”
“I’ve had enough rest to last a lifetime.”
She hesitated. “Do you remember?”
He gave a short nod, eyes still on the sketchbook. “Some of it.”
She watched him draw. His movements were careful but sure, the faint scratch of graphite steady. It was the first time she’d seen him do anything that wasn’t therapy or anger.
“What are you drawing?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “Something I can’t forget.”
She took a step closer, trying to see the page but he tilted it away from her just slightly.
Her curiosity flickered. “You don’t have to hide it.”
He looked up then, meeting her gaze for the briefest moment. “Yes, I do.”
The air between them shifted, not cold, not warm, just charged.
Sienna opened her mouth to speak, but something in his expression stopped her. He looked exposed, somehow. Like showing her that sketch would mean giving away a piece of himself he wasn’t ready to lose.
So she nodded instead. “All right.”
He exhaled, the tension easing slightly. “Thank you.”
She watched him draw a little longer, the way his hand shook occasionally, the way his eyes narrowed in concentration, the faint furrow in his brow that made him look younger, and almost human.
Then, when the wind lifted a page, she caught a glimpse of it. Just a corner before he turned it.
It was a painting of a woman standing by the sea.
Her hair was dark, her back turned, the horizon bleeding into her outline.
Sienna froze, words dying on her tongue.
He noticed her reaction and closed the sketchbook quietly.
“Beautiful view, right?” he said.
“Yeah,” she murmured, though her eyes stayed on the cover of the book. “Beautiful.”
“When will I have breakfast?” He asked.
Sienna was startled by the question.” I'll fix something now.” As she turned to leave, she couldn’t shake the image from her mind, the woman drawn by the sea, waiting for someone who never came back.
And though she didn’t know why, Sienna had the strange, sinking feeling that the woman in the drawing wasn’t a stranger at all. And why was he drawing her? Is she connected to his accident?