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DAHLIA A deep voice swirls around my head. A very familiar rough voice that only softens for me. My eyes flutter open, adjusting to the dim light illuminating the room. My body’s heavy, and everything aches against the soft sheets beneath me. They’re cool against my skin, smelling faintly of cedarwood and fresh detergent. Where is this place…? Recent memories slash through my psyche. The torture. Kane’s father. Kane’s words. Kane. I startle into a sitting position. Am I in his old room? It’s surprisingly simple aside from the luxurious cream wallpaper. The furniture is sleek, minimalist—everything sharp edges and clean lines. No clutter, no personal touches, except for the faded scent of him lingering in the air, a mix of something dark and woodsy. That’s when I see him. Kane’s standing by the window, staring at the night staking its claim on the Japanese garden while talking on the phone in a low, hushed tone. A breath spits out of my lungs. And I breathe. For the first time since I w