ALEX DE LUCA
“I love you, mia amore,” I murmured, my voice low to not disturbed her. I tucked my girl into bed, covering her with a blanket just like the way she liked.
Her pale face, framed by strands of unruly hair, looked so peaceful in sleep. Yet, Exhaustion painted her features. And her skin, always cold to the touch, felt like a small block of ice beneath my fingers. I wish I could take away that cold and replace it with warmth.
Fear.
I’d known it before, lived with it in small, suffocating corners of my past. Thanks to my mother's terror. But nothing compared to the terror that gripped me when Angelina called earlier today.
Her voice trembled here and there as she told me about Eve’s panic attack. It was so unlike her so it must’ve been worse.
The thought of my little girl spiraling, trapped in her own mind, shattered me in ways no physical pain ever could.