LUCY
My breath comes in harsh, ragged gasps that burn my lungs. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs, and I'm shaking so hard the headboard rattles behind me. I can still feel the cold edge of the blade resting against the pulse point of my neck.
"Hey Lu, are you okay?"
My head snaps toward the voice with a speed that startles even me. Even though I recognize the tone immediately, the nightmare has left my reflexes raw and scraping.
Amara.
She's sitting nearby, a book resting open on her thigh, two fingers pressed into the spine to hold her place. Her brows are furrowed with concern. She looks exactly the same as she always has—and I find myself marveling at my own foolishness for half-expecting otherwise.
Why would a witch look different? What was I imagining—a pointed hat?
"Amara…"
"The one and only," she says softly. "Bad dreams?"
