The rain came softly that night — the kind that whispered against the glass instead of crashing against it.
Nick Carter stirred restlessly in his bed, sweat clinging to his forehead as the same dream played again. The rain, the lightning, the echo of her voice fading into the storm.
"Nick… please don't make me do this."
Her eyes had been full of heartbreak — not fury, not hatred — just unbearable pain. Then the car lights, the screeching tires, her scream.
He jolted awake.
The clock on his bedside table blinked 3:42 a.m.
His chest rose and fell as he sat up, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple. The air in the room felt suffocating. Too many memories. Too many ghosts.
Nick swung his legs off the bed and reached for his robe. The house was silent except for the distant hum of rain against the roof. He padded down the hallway, past the portraits Naomi had once chosen, until he reached his private study.
