Darcy stared at the plastic cup of iced coffee in his hand. The ice had already melted halfway, turning the drink watery, but he kept sipping anyway, as if the cold could press down the heat boiling under his skin. It didn't help. Nothing helped.
The night before had torn him apart. He had not slept. Not even for a second.
Every time he closed his eyes, memories that did not belong to this life slammed into his mind like a train that had lost its brakes. Scenes overlapped, voices echoed, faces twisted in pain and obsession. It had felt like drowning in someone else's life while still being trapped in his own body.
And the most ridiculous, most infuriating truth of all was that he was a character in a book.
Even now, sitting there under the pale morning light, the thought made his fingers curl tighter around the cup until the plastic cracked slightly.
What the actual hell kind of joke was that? His jaw tightened. His temples throbbed.
