*Isla*

I’m not sure if my eyes are open or shut. I don’t know if the tapestry above the bed–the rich fabric woven with florals amongst a blanket of stars–is actually what I’m seeing, or if I’m now laying outside, looking up into the endless, moonless night.

I don’t feel the maids clutching my arms. I don’t feel the cool rag Poppy has draped over my forehead. I don’t feel Maddox’s large, calloused hand retreat from my bare, heated thigh.

I just feel ...