"Right, of course. When…do you want to do it?"
"In a few weeks? There’s an event I’ve been invited to; can you accompany me?"
"Okay." I half smile. "You look tired; you should rest up."
He yawns suddenly. It reinforces the air of vulnerability clinging to him. Strange. I’m not used to seeing James Hamilton this…approachable. Almost adorable. And maybe, a little lost as he dawdles outside my room. Something makes me go up on tiptoe and kiss his whiskered cheek.
“Night, James."
He stiffens.
Before he can react further, I step back inside and shut the door in his face.
Then stand there, shocked. Wow, did I just do that?
I take a sip of my wine, then carry the glass into the en suite. I finish it after my shower and slide into bed. I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow. I’m woken by a sound.
I know what is even before I throw off my covers. I’m on my feet and moving toward James’ bedroom before I can stop myself. I reach his door and hear another low cry from within. It tears my heart in half and spurs me to step inside his room and head toward his bed.
Sure enough, he’s gripping the sheets with his clenched hands. The veins on his forearms stand out. The tendons on his throat seem ready to snap. Sweat beads his chest.
I know better than trying to wake him up after last time, so I keep my distance and call out his name.
"James?"
He continues to breathe heavily and mutter in his sleep. Words I can’t make out. His forehead is furrowed. The scar on his cheekbone seems to stand out against the whiteness of his skin. He flexes his shoulders, every part of his body going rigid.
"James, wake up." I clap my hands.
Nothing. His breathing grows choppy, his nostrils flare.
"You’re having a nightmare,” I raise my voice.
He makes a low noise, one filled with so much hurt, my heart shatters. I have to wake him up. But how?
I dip my fingers into the glass of water on his nightstand and flick a few drops on his face.
His eyes snap open. I jump back, keeping well out of the way. He sits up, the water running down his chest, and onto the bed. His eyelashes are spiky, a strand of hair curls on his forehead.
My fingers itch to smooth it back, but I resist.
He glances around wildly and spots me. “Ember, don’t go.” The veins on his throat stand out in relief. His voice is frantic.
His eyes indicate he’s caught between sleep and wakefulness.
“It was a nightmare.” I curl my fingers into fists at my sides. I want to go to him and soothe him, but I don’t dare. Not that I worry that he’llhurt me. He won’t. But he’ll hate himself if we’re caught in a situation similar to last time.
He wipes his face as if trying to erase both the nightmare and the water.
But his body language gives away his vulnerability: tense shoulders, jaw locked tight, flushed cheeks from embarrassment.
Slowly, his eyes clear. Concern filters into his expression. "Harper?"
"You were dreaming."
His shoulders sag a little. He runs his fingers through his hair, then shoves his bedsheets aside, rising to his feet. He’s wearing only a pair of black boxers that are tented in the center.
But the expression on his face, and the way sweat beads his shoulders only add to his vulnerability.
