Chapter 6
Olivia
My evening in Malik’s home was a whirlwind of opposing extremes—at once ravenous yet too exhausted to eat, bone-weary yet unable to relax. I was drawn to Malik’s presence, then repelled by his darkness, remembering my husband and the life I had left behind.
Images of Roman wrapped around me like a phantom touch as I drifted from the bath to the dining room. I felt he was with me, but when I reached for him, my fingers found only empty air.
I ate, but I don’t remember what was served.
I spoke, but I don’t recall what I said.
At last, when I could no longer keep my eyelids open, I was led to my bedroom. Sleep claimed me the moment my head met the pillow.
I curled into Malik’s soft, luxurious bedding, the scent of lavender mingling with something exotically feral. And I dreamed.
“Mama! Mama!”
My son’s piercing cries jolted my heart into high alert. I looked up from the garden, where my hands had been buried in the dark earth, pulling weeds.
Ahead, my dream husband and son struggled to carry a man down the dusty road.
I sprinted across the garden loam, my sandals slapping against the ground. “What happened? Who is this?”
“We found him barely breathing,” my husband said, his voice strained. “But he’s alive. With your healing skills, I’m sure he’ll make it.”
His arms trembled under the man’s weight, his muscles straining to keep him aloft.
Beside him, my son wrestled with the man’s legs, repositioning his grip with effort.
“Set him down,” I instructed, urgency threading my tone. “Right here.”
They tried to ease him to the ground, but he slipped from their grasp, collapsing with a heavy thud.
A groan rumbled from his chest. Then, his eyes snapped open—
I found myself staring into a deep and endless galaxy of shifting colors, swirling from dusky blue to shadowed green.
A gaze both haunting and familiar.
“Easy,” I murmured, pressing a hand against the man’s sweat-dampened shoulder. “My husband found you, but you’re alive. You’re going to be all right. Can you remember your name?”
His lips parted, breath shallow. “My name’s… Eyan Malik,” he wheezed. “I’m in so much pain… my head… hurts…” His eyelids fluttered closed.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, placing my palm against his forehead. A sigh shuddered through his body, and he sank into stillness, his breath evening out.
I awoke disoriented, my mind tangled between dream and reality. The warmth of the bedroom wrapped around me, its softness unfamiliar. It took a moment to remember where I was and to recognize the safety of my surroundings. Then, sleep dragged me under once more.
And I dreamed.
I was giving birth.
The room was dark, lit only by the glow of a single oil lamp. I lay on a bed, my body taut with exertion, my fingers crushing my husband’s hand as another contraction ripped through me.
Sweat poured down my face and chest, soaking the sheets beneath me.
“One more push, my love,” my husband urged, his voice tender. “Squeeze me as hard as you must.”
The pain was relentless, like towering waves crashing against the walls of my body, forcing the child downward. My groan turned into a guttural cry as I bore down with everything I had left.
Then, a sudden release.
A wail filled the air.
The midwife’s voice was calm yet insistent. “Another push—you must deliver the placenta.”
I gasped for air, my strength nearly spent, but I obeyed.
“Beautiful,” she praised. Then, she placed something warm and slippery on my chest. “Here’s your baby girl.”
Tears welled in my eyes as I looked down at her—tiny, perfect, alive.
She let out a hiccupping cry, and I joined her, my sobs spilling into the air, thick with relief, love, and exhaustion. My husband wept beside me, pressing kisses against my temple, against our daughter’s head.
The midwife clipped the cord, placing the placenta in a basin. With her hands on her hips, she beamed at us.
“We have another beautiful daughter,” my husband blubbered. “Everything is perfect.”
He placed his large hand along her delicate back, and she quieted instantly.
Then, a bolt of alarm shot up my spine.
I gripped his wrist. “Do you have news of Malik?”
His joyful expression faltered.
“Darling, you need to rest,” he said gently. “Care for our child.” His eyes glistened with love, but I saw shadows creeping behind them.
“They’re going to find us,” I whispered, my gaze darting around the dimly lit room. The walls felt too thin, the darkness pressing in. “They’ll kill us. We’ve been running too long. We need to find Malik. Only he can help us.”
“Shhh, my love,” my husband soothed, brushing damp hair from my face. “I’ll take care of everything. Shhh.”
His words were soft, but they did nothing to quiet the terror crawling beneath my skin.
Because deep down, I knew—
We were already running out of time.
Then, his shushing noises shifted, morphing into the crackle of flames.
The dream changed.
I was propelled into lucidity, thrust into an inferno.
My breasts hung swollen and aching with milk.
Around me, flames raged, devouring the village and tearing homes into cinders. Smoke thickened the air, burning my throat. The heat blistered my skin.
And at my feet—
My son.
His small, lifeless body lay motionless on the scorched earth.
“No!” A scream tore from my throat. “No, no, no, no!”
My hand latches onto the hilt of a sword hanging on the wall. But my arms were too weak to wield it.
A shadow lunged. A flash of steel—
A blade sliced into my leg, crimson spilling down my thigh.
Brutish men swarmed the house, their weapons gleaming in the firelight. One by one, they struck down my children.
Steel met flesh.
Tiny bodies crumpled.
Screams filled the air.
My husband roared, surging forward, his sword cleaving through the attackers with wild, furious slashes.
But it wasn’t enough.
The fire swallowed my children, flames licking at their fragile forms.
The acrid stench of burning flesh flooded my nostrils.
I reached toward them, my fingers grasping—but they slipped through my hands.
“I have to get to them,” I whispered. “I have to save them.”
Ahead, a man raised a dagger high in a two-handed grip—
And drove it into my husband’s chest.
His eyes widened in shock. Blood bubbled from his lips.
He crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Then—footsteps.
The killer turned, racing toward the back bedroom.
The baby.
“The baby!” I screamed. “He’s going to kill the baby!”
I lunged toward the scorched remnants of the front porch stairs—
A blade plunged into my stomach.
Pain erupted through me. My legs buckled. I collapsed onto the earth.
I was dying.
And my entire family was dead.
Then, Malik.
He materialized before me, his face twisted in anguish.
“Don’t die,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry for leaving you. I never should have left. I let my emotions get in the way, and now you’re dying.”
Tears filled his eyes.
I gripped his wrist, my strength fading.
“Protect my baby,” I begged. “Protect her as your own.”
A flaming beam crashed down, striking my skull. The fire roared over me, consuming me whole.
My life slipped away, dissolving into the inferno.
“No, my beloved, don’t die on me. Please don’t die. I love you. I love you so much. I can’t bear to be without you. Don’t leave me!”
Malik’s voice wavered, distant and desperate, fading into nothingness.
A final, gut-wrenching scream ripped from my throat—
And I bolted upright in bed.
My breath came in ragged gasps, my face damp with tears. The sheets and blankets coiled around me like ropes, trapping my arms and legs in a suffocating grip.
“Roman!” I choked, struggling against the entangling fabric. “Malik! Where’s my baby? Where are my children?” My voice cracked, raw, and frantic. “The fire… They killed my children! My baby is gone. They burned my family! They killed everyone! Malik!”
The panic consumed me, my heart hammering against my ribs, my mind spiraling between dream and reality.
Somewhere in the distance, the hooded clock on the mantel chimed twice.
2 a.m.
Large hands gripped my shoulders, shaking me gently.
A fresh wave of terror surged through me. I let out a strangled cry, shoving my unseen intruder away.
“Get away from me!”
A familiar voice cut through the haze.
“Easy, my love,” Malik murmured. “You were having a nightmare. Screaming. Thrashing. I heard you and came running.”
He settled at the edge of the bed, his presence grounding yet unbearable all at once.
I blinked through my tears, barely able to make out his features in the dim glow of moonlight filtering through the window.
He was shirtless.
The firelight from earlier had long since faded, but he radiated warmth like embers still smoldering. His broad chest glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. His musky, undeniably male scent curled around me, taunting my fragile senses.
I turned away, collapsing against the feather pillow and squeezing my eyes shut.
The dream still clung to me, thick and suffocating.
I had lived a life with both Malik and Roman.
I had birthed children.
And I had watched them burn to death.
Roman had been killed—or worse.
And Malik had begged me to live.
Yet the flames had swallowed me whole.
I had died.
A shudder ran through me. My pulse pounded in my ears.
I opened my eyes, forcing myself to look at Malik.
His gaze searched mine, unreadable. Then, he reached out, brushing damp strands of hair from my face.
His touch was careful. Tender.
“Don’t,” I whispered, but I didn’t push his hand away.
A strange, unsettling warmth coiled inside me. “What’s going on? I feel like we’ve met before. Have we?”
Malik shook his head. “No. I found you for the first time when you lost your baby.”
“That can’t be possible,” I murmured, shaking my head. “The dream… it was so real.”
I stared ahead, my vision blurring as the memory clawed its way through me.
“The fire,” I whispered. “I was giving birth… My husband saved you. We were in danger. People were hunting us. You were in love with me. You cried when I was dying. You told me you loved me.”
I swallowed hard, my throat raw.
“It felt raw. I felt everything.” I turned to him, desperate for answers. “How is that possible?”
Malik said nothing, his fingers still sifting through my hair, his expression unreadable.
I started to cry again, exhaustion sinking its claws into me. “I’m so tired,” I confessed, my voice breaking. “I miss my husband. My emotions are all over the place.”
I covered my face with my hands, overcome by fatigue, fear, and the power of my lucid dreams.
Malik stayed close, his warmth surrounding me. His hand continued its rhythmic strokes along my hair, down my arm, a steady presence amidst my chaos.
Why did I feel so compelled by him? Why did I feel like I knew Eyan Malik?
I pressed my palm against his chest and pushed him away. “Please don’t touch me. You overwhelm me, Malik.”
He withdrew instantly. The warmth vanished. A cold void remained in its place.
I shuddered, squeezing my eyes shut, unwilling to see his face or meet those piercing, knowing eyes. “Tell me where my husband is,” I whispered. “I need to see him.”
I turned toward the window, staring at the half-moon hanging low in the sky.
Where are you, Roman?
I miss you so much. I need you here with me. I can’t do this alone. I need you by my side.
Malik disrupted the silence. “You’re married to Roman. You can use your blade to find him, remember?”
The dagger.
I gasped. “Grey Feather said Roman and I could use our knives to find one another!”
Scrambling out of bed, I padded across the room, heart hammering. I yanked open the dresser drawer and retrieved my gleaming blade.
Without hesitation, I sliced through my palm, the familiar sting barely registering as I began reciting the sacred words.
The polished metal flared to life, pulsing with an otherworldly glow that rivaled the moon’s brilliance.
Then—
A scene burst into existence, unfurling in the air like a hologram.
There, lying in bed, was Roman.
My beloved husband.
Bandaged. Alive. Safe.
Frowning as he fiddled with my dad’s television remote.
A sobbing laugh tore from my throat. “My husband’s learning how to use a television!”
But then—
The sweetest, most gut-wrenching vision of all met my eyes.
Papa.
My father—the man I had watched Tristan kill—stepped into Roman’s room.
The air rushed from my lungs. My body gave out. I slumped beside Malik on the bed, my limbs weak, my mind scrambling to understand what I saw.
My father, whom I had grieved. Who I had buried in my heart.
Alive.
A freight train of truth slammed into me, its force gasping me. The world tilted, warped.
A brick wall of grief and finality—the one I had built to survive—crumbled before my eyes, revealing a reality I had never once considered.
My breath came in short, uneven gasps. My hands trembled. My thoughts spiraled.
How?
How was he alive?
How many other lies had I accepted as truth?
The weight of it all pressed against my chest, suffocating, screaming through my mind with unanswered questions and raging emotions.
Then, in a whisper, fragile, broken, I forced the words out:
“My father… all this time… he’s been alive?”
The room closed in. The vision shimmered before me, so real yet impossibly wrong.
And suddenly, I didn’t know what to believe anymore.