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She was running.

Something seized hard in my chest.

I lunged forward, arm shooting out, fingers locking around her wrist.

My palm pressed against delicate, burning-soft skin. The bone beneath jolted violently in my grip.

I yanked her backward into my chest. Fingers dug into flesh, my throat working, grinding out hoarse Tuscan dialect.

"Non te ne andare... Ruby..."

The body beneath my hand went rigid. She looked up, amber eyes contracting in the light, tears pooling on her lashes, trembling there.

Reality and dream blurred completely. I felt—truly felt—cool, soft flesh beneath my palm, a rapid pulse beating weakly, and even caught the sickly-sweet scent of peach and white honey in the air.

But then the figure in the dream began dissolving like fog.

My fingertips grasped nothing!

"Ruby!"

I jolted awake, gasping, body snapping upright on the sofa.

My right hand clenched into a violent fist—but caught only empty air.

No morning light. No broken sequin dress. No trembling, soft body.

The living room was pitch black and dead silent except for the faint whisper of air conditioning. No one beside me.

I breathed hard, muscles still coiled from the dream's violence and panic. But as I sat up, something heavy draped across my chest slid down my movement and fell soundlessly into my lap.

My fingers touched thick, soft fabric with fading warmth. Deep gray wool.

The spare blanket from the master bedroom closet.

In the rough wool fibers lingered that unmistakable trace of peach and white honey.

She'd been here.

Chapter 12

Ruby

I barely slept all night.

Every time I closed my eyes, that image flooded back—Marcelo sprawled on the couch, gripping my hand in his sleep, murmuring in low, husky Italian. "Non te ne andare, Ruby... don't go..."

His voice carried a fragility I'd never heard before, like he was pleading, like he was desperate.

In that moment, my heart almost burst from my chest.

I wanted to pull away, to run back to the bedroom and pretend nothing happened. But he held on so tight, his fingertips burning into my skin like they could melt me.

Eventually I broke free, grabbed a blanket from the bedroom closet, draped it carefully over him, then slunk back to my room like a thief.

Now, thinking about it, my face was still burning.

What did he mean? Why was he calling my name? Was he dreaming? Dreaming about what?