Page 25 of Twisted Tate

“I knew something was wrong. I should have come to you.”

“And what could you have done? You can’t fix what’s in my head, Tate.”

“Maybe not.” His thumb traces along my jaw. “But I can be there when you wake up. Tell me what you see when you close your eyes, baby girl.”

I don’t want to. I’ve spent years trying not to think about these things during the day, shoving them into a box and sitting on the lid. But he’s looking at me like he actually wants to know. Like he can handle it.

“It’s always the same room.” My voice comes out hollow. “My father has this study on the third floor. It has a lock on the outside of the door.”

Tate’s body goes rigid beneath me.

“That’s where it happened. Most of the time when I was younger, anyway.” I stare at a point past his shoulder because I can’t look at him while I say this. “In the dreams, I’m back there. I can smell the cigars and the scotch. I can feel the leather of the couch against my skin.”

“Reese.” He says my name like my words are slicing through him.

“There are hands everywhere. Too many hands. And I can never see their faces clearly, but I can hear them. Laughing. Talking about me like I’m not there.” I swallow hard. “Sometimes my father is in the doorway. Watching. Making sure I behave.”

Tate’s chest is rising and falling harder now. I can feel his heart pounding against my palm.

“Michael is the clearest one. He’s always there at the end.” I force myself to keep going even though every word feels like swallowing glass. “He likes to hurt me. Then he tells me no one else would want me after everything I’ve done.”

“That’s a fucking lie.”

“Maybe.” But my voice wavers. “During the day, I try to push the bad thoughts away. But in the dreams, I believe him. I believe all of it. And I can’t move, can’t scream, can’t fight back. I just have to lie there and endure it all until I wake up.”

Tate is silent for a long moment. When I finally look at his face, I almost flinch. His expression is carved from stone, but his eyes are blazing with barely contained violence.

“How often does it happen?”

“Most nights. Sometimes more than once.” I let out a shaky breath. “I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night without waking up choking on a scream.”

“And sucking on something helps you come back.”

It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “It gives me something to focus on. Something real. Otherwise I just stay trapped in it, even after I wake up.”

He’s quiet again, processing. I wait for him to say something empty and meaningless. That it’ll get better. That I’m safe now. That the nightmares will stop.

Instead, he says, “I’m going to kill Michael Collier. I want you to know that. I want him to know exactly why he’s dying, and I want it to take a long fucking time.”

A sound escapes me that’s half laugh, half sob. “That shouldn’t make me feel better.”

“But it does.”

“Yeah.” I press my forehead to his chest. “It really does.”

His hand moves to the back of my head, holding me against him. “Tonight, you’re sleeping in my room. When the nightmares come, I’ll be right there.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” His voice is firm. “I want to. So that’s what’s happening, unless you tell me no.”

I should argue. I should maintain some kind of distance between us. But I’m so tired of being alone in the dark with the monsters in my head.

“Okay,” I whisper.

His arms tighten around me, and I let myself sink into him.

The rest of the day feels almost normal.