He doesn’t pull away. He keeps his hand there, grounding me, anchoring me to the present. His thumb strokes the tissue-thin skin of my throat. Possessive. The touch of a man who clears perimeters and seals unbreachable fortresses.
The fire spits, flinging a spray of embers up the chimney. The wind howls outside, raking at the glass walls, trying to breach them, trying to freeze us.
But inside the corona of firelight, with his hand on my neck and his knee welded against mine, the cold can’t touch me. The fear dissipates.
I’m safer in this dark, frigid room with this violent man than I have ever been in the light.
I lean into his touch. Just a fraction. A capitulation.
His pupils dilate. He looks at my mouth. Then he holds my gaze. The heat between us threatens to devour the oxygen in the room.
“Get some sleep, Iris.” His voice grinds like dragged gravel.
He doesn’t move his hand.
“I can’t. I’ll dream.”
“I’ll watch over you.” The promise hangs solid between us. “I’ll watch the door. I’ll watch the windows. I’ll watch over you while you sleep.”
Sleep finally drags me under.
I drift off, surrounded by the scent of fire and the man who is both my captor and my savior.
I don’t want him to let go.
The heat from the fire warms my face, but the air around us grows colder as the night deepens. I drift in the space between waking and sleeping, tethered to the waking world by the weight of his hand on my neck. It never moves. A constant, heavy anchor.
I dream, but the garage and the dead boy are gone.
I dream of the fire.
I walk into a burning building, the smoke stinging my eyes. I’m not afraid. In the center of the flames, he waits. He stands amidst the wreckage, untouched, offering his hand.
In the dream, I take it.
I shift on the rug, murmuring something unintelligible.
“Shh. I’ve got you.” The voice tugs me halfway back. I open my eyes, slits in the dim light.
Boyd hasn’t moved. He sits beside me, his back against the couch, his legs stretched out. His head rests tipped back, eyes closed. He isn’t sleeping. His breathing runs steady. His posture stays perfectly alert.
He’s the sentry.
I look at his hand. It rests on my shoulder now, having slid down from my neck as I relaxed. It looks massive on my cardigan. Dark skin against gray wool. Power against softness.
I move my hand. Slowly. Testing the boundaries.
I lay my fingers over his.
He tenses instantly. A reflex. He doesn’t pull away. He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. His grip swallows my hand whole.
The intimacy of it shocks me more than a kiss would. Holding hands is for lovers. It’s for comfort. Connection.
We shouldn’t do this.
We’re crossing the line he drew in the snow.
“Go back to sleep.” He keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling.
