Dahlia awoke in the soft glow of the evening, still feeling the haze of sleep clinging to her. Her body felt heavy, and though her limbs protested, she was weary of lying in bed for so long. With effort, she propped herself up on her elbows and leaned back against the pillows, her movements slow and deliberate.
Her throat felt parched, and she glanced toward the water jar sitting on the small table at the far side of the bed.
She called for Nylie, expecting her prompt assistance, but was met with only silence. A faint crease appeared on her brow as she shifted forward, attempting to reach the other end of the bed, though the strain made her pause.
At that moment, the door creaked open, and Sullivan stepped into the room. Her gaze flicked to the gun casually resting in his hand, a sight she couldn't quite ignore.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
Dahlia met his eyes and, with a dry rasp, replied, "I need water. Nylie wasn't outside."
