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DAHLIA The morning comes with a strange sense of peace. And a headache. A sore throat, too. I blink my eyes open a couple of times and a smooth ceiling with painted cherry blossoms materializes before me. The stunning 3D details are so well illustrated, I feel as if I’ve been transported into a fairy tale. Slowly, the rest of the room comes into view and I sit up in the massive bed, holding the black sheet to my chest. The first thing that hits me is the cold. Not the icy kind that seeps into my bones, but the kind that creeps into the air, that wraps around me even under the covers. It’s everywhere—spreading from the walls, the floor, and the very space around me. Kane’s space. It smells like him. Woodsmoke and leather. The room is massive, but it feels suffocating. Aside from the cherry blossom ceiling, everything else is devoid of warmth. Dark gray walls swallow the light whole. Clean lines, minimalistic, with everything perfectly in place. There are no personal touches, no photos,