I roll on my side, forcing myself to alternate between deep inhales and exaggerated exhales.
At some point during the breathing exercise, I fall asleep.
I blink. Once, twice, dozens of times, until the chlorine clears from my eyes and the stinging stops. I’m floating, but it feels like something heavy is strapped to my chest. Fears hover, but they’re transparent, separated from my tangible thoughts by a thin veil. When I try to focus, to recall what I should be afraid of, they become more slippery. The same consistency as the water I’m surrounded by, sliding soundlessly through my fingers with nothing to grasp on to.
Something cold and sharp presses against my neck. Instantly, I recall what I’m supposed to be scared about. Who is hunting me.
I turn my head slowly, wary of the blade, meeting the eyes with flecks I could draw from memory.
He smiles cruelly. “Caught you.”
I open my mouth, dragged down before any sound can escape, water filling my lungs and silencing my screams.
I’m shivering and sweating. Hiding and running, trapped in a nightmare of my own creation that appears to lack any escape.
“Carina.”
I sink deeper, limbs flailing uselessly since I can’t recall how to swim.
“Carina!”
I wake with a start, my inhales wild gasps as my ability to breathe slowly registers. I’m not drowning. I’m in bed, Lev’s frowning face hovering above. His hand is on my shoulder, grip tight, grounding me.
The sight is nearly as disconcerting as the dream. I’ve fallen asleep with him plenty of times. But I’ve never woken up to him before.
Also, he was just holding a knife to my throat. Warped versions of the night we met have existed in my subconscious ever since the actual evening happened, and I’ve always avoided exploring what they might mean.
I swallow hard, tempted to touch my neck, wishing there were anywhere else to look. I can barely make out his expression in the dim light.
“Bad dream,” I whisper.
The crease of concern in his forehead remains. I’m worried he’ll press for details or try to take advantage of my disconcertion to repeat previous questions, but he doesn’t. He just remains beside the bed, like his presence is enough to chase any demons away.
Maybe it is. The dreams always happen after he’s left.
“Do you want me to stay?”
The offer stuns me, paired with the immediate realization that’s exactly what I want. Like a first sip of water when you recognize how thirsty you truly were.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t reply. I squint at the darkness, tracking his shadowed figure along the perimeter of the bed before he halts on the opposite side of the mattress. The sheets shift, followed by a slight dip as he lies down beside me.
“Do you not know how to use a dryer?”
A startled laugh huffs out. I’m tempted to turn my head to look at his profile, but I smile at the ceiling instead. “You could have helped.”
“I needed a cigarette.”
I click my tongue. “You fit right in with the French.”
“Not the Italians?”
“I’ve spent more time here.” True, but I wish I’d swallowed that comment rather than said it.
His lack of reply confirms it. I trust he won’t slit my throat, but he has his own agenda. The less I share about my family and about my past, the better. He already knows too much, as proven by how easily he tracked me down in a city of millions.
I close my eyes, attempting to summon sleep. Suck in a deep breath, hoping the same strategy will work again.
