Whatever he was reliving, it was bad.
She pushed the remains of the pillow wall aside and moved closer, staying out of range of his arms. “Dakota. Come back. You’re not there anymore.”
His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Hard.
She didn’t fight the grip. Didn’t pull away. Just held still and kept her voice steady. “It’s Jayden. You’re okay. We’re in a cabin in Fiji. The storm is passing. You’re safe.”
Slowly, slowly, the wildness faded from his eyes. His grip loosened. His breathing—ragged, uneven—started to settle.
“Jayden.” His voice emerged hoarse.
“Yes. You’re safe.” She leaned over him, her pendant necklace and locket hanging from her neck.
He released her wrist. Pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out rough, broken. “I should have warned you. The nightmares—I have them sometimes?—”
“Don’t apologize.” She sat back on her heels.
He ran a hand through his hair. Looked at her. In the faint glow from the nightlight, his face was drawn, shadowed.
The rain softened outside. The storm remained, still rattling the shutters, but the violence had passed. What remained felt steady against the storm.
“I’ll make tea,” she said. “There’s a kettle in the bathroom, and I saw some packets on the counter.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know.” She was already moving. “But I’m awake, and I could use a cup too, so you’re getting one whether you like it or not.”
The bathroom was small but clean—white tile, a standing shower, a mirror that reflected her wild-eyed face back at her. She ran the water until it was hot, filled the electric kettle, and found the tea packets. Chamomile. Probably meant for guests who had trouble sleeping.
Or were plagued with night terrors.
She made two cups and carried them back to the main room.
Dakota had swung his legs over the side of the bed, was sitting on the edge, head bowed, his reflection catching in the dresser mirror across the room. Even in the low light from the bathroom, she could make out the tension of his broad shoulders, the tension coiled in his muscles. He wore a T-shirt, but it was thin, and when he shifted, she caught a glimpse of something on his back.
Scars.
Not one or two. A map of them. Ridged lines that spoke of shrapnel. A puckered circle that could only be a bullet wound.
The man had history.
She looked away quickly. Set the tea on the nightstand beside him.
“Chamomile,” she said. “It’s supposed to be calming, but honestly, it just tastes like hot flowers.”
He picked up the cup. Wrapped his hands around it. “Thank you.”
They sat in silence for a long moment. The rain continued its steady rhythm on the roof.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.” She rubbed her wrist where his grip had been. A little sore, nothing more. “You’ve got a strong grip, but I’ve had worse from overeager handshakes.”
He didn’t laugh. Just sat there breathing, trying to come back from wherever he’d been.
She waited. Let the silence stretch. Let him find the words in his own time.
