Chapter 1042
Liam scooped Skye into his arms. He ignored the agonizing tear in his injured shoulder. He didn’t feel his own pain. He only felt how terrifyingly limp she was.
He ran.
Julian, coughing violently, was hoisted onto Ethan’s back. They followed Liam up the steep, rocky incline, leaving the burning manor behind.
In the back seat of Alistair’s armored SUV, Liam pulled Skye onto his lap. Alistair drove like a madman, the engine roaring as they tore down the mountain road.
Liam pressed his trembling fingers to Skye’s neck. Her pulse was a frantic, erratic flutter. Her skin was ice cold, yet she was sweating profusely.
“Don’t do this,” Liam begged, pressing his forehead against hers. His tears mixed with the grime on her face. “Don’t go to sleep, Skye. Fight it. Please.”
But Skye was already gone.
𝖨n𝗍еn𝘀e 𝗿𝗼ma𝗇𝘤е о𝗇 𝘨𝗮𝗹𝘯o𝘷𝖾𝗅s.𝘤о𝗆
Her consciousness was sinking into a deep, suffocating ocean. The sounds of the car engine, Alistair’s cursing, and Liam’s pleading grew fainter and fainter until they were swallowed by a heavy, absolute silence.
In the dark, tiny specks of light began to gather.
They swirled like fireflies, forming shapes, colors, and sounds—fragments of memories. A piano playing. A laugh. The smell of fresh rain on manicured lawns.
The light exploded.
Skye gasped, her eyes flying open.
She wasn’t in a car. She wasn’t on a rocky beach.
She was lying on a massive, cloud-like king-size bed. The sheets were Egyptian cotton, soft and cool against her skin.
Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, she could see the perfectly sculpted hedges and the grand fountain of the Sterling Manor gardens.
A digital alarm clock on the mahogany nightstand began to beep softly.
8:00 AM.
The heavy oak door clicked open. A maid in a crisp uniform walked in, carrying a silver tray with a single, perfect pink rose and a cup of Earl Grey tea.
“Good morning, Miss Skye,” the maid smiled warmly. “And happy birthday.”
Skye sat up slowly. The sheets pooled around her waist. She felt no pain in her collarbone. No ache in her muscles.
“Birthday?” Skye whispered, her throat dry. “What year is it?”
The maid chuckled, setting the tray down. “Why, it’s your twentieth birthday, of course. Your father is waiting for you downstairs.”
Skye threw the covers off and stumbled to the antique vanity mirror in the corner of the room.
She gripped the edges of the table.
The girl staring back at her was twenty years old. Her hair was long and dark—not the platinum blonde tactical cut she had worn yesterday. Her skin was flawless. There were no bullet scars, no knife wounds, no shadows of exhaustion under her eyes.
She looked pure. Untouched by the horrors of the past five years.
Skye raised a trembling hand and pinched the soft skin of her forearm. Hard.
A sharp sting radiated from the pinch. It hurt.
“Am I… back?” Skye breathed, touching her face. “Did I reset again?”
She turned and ran out of the room, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor of the hallway. She rushed down the grand, sweeping staircase.