Page 91 of The Defiant Wife

I move closer and rest my hand gently on her shoulder.She's burning up with warmth, her muscles tight beneath my palm.

"Diya . . . wake up."

"You're dreaming." She frowns in her sleep, "it's okay, you're okay."She gasps.Her eyes fly open, and she jerks upright so suddenly that the blanket slips into her lap.

For a few terrifying seconds she doesn't seem to know where she is.Her eyes dart around the room, wide with panic. She's breathing too fast.Her hands clutch the sheets so tightly her knuckles turn white.

"Breathe," I tell her gently as I sit in front of her.

"Look at me."

She doesn't.She's still trapped somewhere between the nightmare and reality.

I carefully take hold of her wrists.Not tightly.Just enough to ground her.

"Look at my chest," I say softly.

"Match my breathing."

"In . . . " I take a slow breath.

" . . . hold it."

" . . . and out."

She tries.

The first attempt is shaky.The second is a little better.I keep breathing slowly until she follows my rhythm.

Minute by minute, the panic begins to fade.Her shoulders slowly relax.Her breathing steadies.

Finally, she lets out one long, trembling breath before lowering her forehead against my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.Her voice is rough from crying.

"I didn't mean to wake you." She pauses. "And . . . I'm sorry for making a scene in your bed."

Something inside me immediately bristles.Not because she woke me.Because she's apologizing.I gently place my fingers beneath her chin until she looks at me."Don't do that."

My voice stays calm, but firm."Don't apologize for something you can't control."

"If you have a nightmare, you wake me." I circle my arms around her shoulders expecting her to pull. "If you're scared, you tell me." I gently tighten my hold when she doesn’t. "You're allowed to cry in this room, Diya." Slowly I reach for her fingers, "You're allowed to have bad nights." And I interlock them.

She lets out a tiny laugh, but it sounds more tired than amused.Her eyes fall to our hands.She doesn't move away.

If anything . . . She leans into my touch just a little.

"It was the orphanage," she says after a long silence. Her voice is barely above a whisper."The old dormitory."

I stay quiet. She needs someone to listen.

"When I was little . . . before my father brought me home . . . nobody knew who I was."

"I was just . . . the strange girl with white patches on her skin."

She swallows hard."The other children were told vitiligo was contagious."

"They wouldn't touch me."