The penthouse bedroom is dark, the heavy blackout curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. The only light comes from the soft, warm amber glow of the small lamp on the nightstand, casting long, lazy shadows across the ceiling.
Yet again, my world has shrunk down to the sharp, chemical taste coating my mouth, the sickening spin of the room every time I open my eyes, and the sheer, relentless force of my stomach trying to turn itself inside out.
I’m curled on my side on the bed, my knees pulled up toward my chest, my body trembling so hard my teeth are practically chattering. A cold sweat coats my skin, sticking my shirt to my back, but under my skin, I feel like I'm burning alive.
"Hey, baby," Locke’s low voice is right behind me. “I've got you.”
Before the next violent surge can
