Noted. She doesn’t like having the spotlight turned back on herself.
I grab the book from beside her pillow and flip it over, scanning the black-and-pink cover. “I’ll drop it if you let me read you a chapter.”
“Blackmail on top of character assassination?”
I grin. “I just happen to like you the way you are. There’s nothing wrong with caring about people.” I glance up at her. “I just think there should be room for someone to care about you too.”
Her expression softens for half a second before one eyebrow lifts. “Funny. Pretty sure the same thing could be said for you.”
The air shifts between us.
“Your past doesn’t define you, Emmett. At least, not the man you’ve shown me.”
And that’s my queue to crack open her book. I take a bite of the pancake and thumb to the bookmarked page—a whopping three pages in. I start at the beginning and read between bites until all the food is gone. Then the cookie sheet gets moved to the floor so we can stretch out.
She looks so right tucked against me that I lose my place more than once staring down at her.
Her eyes grow heavier and my arm starts tingling from the lack of blood but I don’t dare move. Instead I lower my voice and keep reading as she drifts off.
When Aspen falls asleep before we’re finished with the first chapter I replace the bookmark and set the book on the nightstand next to her lamp. Slowly I shift just enough to be able to feel my hand, but I can’t drag myself away.
I don’t sleep worth a damn, but I’d rather not sleep here than anywhere else.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
ASPEN
A crash rips me from a dead sleep.
My heart pounds in my ears as I peer through the darkness of my bedroom, trying to figure out what happened. It takes me a moment to remember I’m not alone—to remember the arms wrapped around my waist when I fell asleep.
That’s when I see it: the empty space beside me. The sheets are twisted and half-hanging off the mattress, and my lamp is on the floor.
I follow the trail of tangled cotton over the edge of the bed, and what I see cracks my chest wide open.
Emmett is sprawled on the floor on his back. His head jerks side to side, movements sharp and frantic. As my eyes adjust, each detail wrecks me more than the last. Sweat dampens his hair against his forehead, and he’s still only wearing the boxer briefs he slipped back on after our shower. His legs kick against the hardwood, sheets tangled around them, the most anguished sounds spilling from his mouth.
I sink to the floor, giving him a wide berth and pressing myself to the wall beside him. When he lets out another garbled cry, the blood in my veins turns to ice.
He can’t see me. He can’t see this room. He’s most likely reliving the worst moment of his life, and he can’t escape.
Every instinct I have begs me to touch him, but I know that can make things worse. The longer I watch him suffer, though, the tighter my throat grows.
His fingers claw at the hardwood, and a deep cough chokes him before his whole body goes rigid, then curls, like he’s bracing for impact. I sit frozen beside him as he shudders and gasps for air.
I wipe at my face, finding hot tears that I didn’t realize had started flowing.
It feels like it goes on for hours.
Then slowly, his muscles uncoil, and his breathing shifts. His lashes flutter—the frantic edge softens little by little, confusion slowly replacing terror.
I edge closer, watching his throat bob as he swallows thickly, then he clears his throat, like the imaginary smoke is clinging there.
“Emmett?” I whisper into the darkness.
“Aspen?” he croaks uncertainly.
