Page 26 of Twisted Tate

He makes us sandwiches for lunch. We don’t talk about what I told him, but I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. And I catch myself watching him right back.

Tate said that we’d work on plans tomorrow, that I’d been through enough for one day. He texts on his phone every now and then. We don’t connect mine to the satellite for risk that they’ll track me.

By evening, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. The emotional wreckage of the morning has left me hollow, scraped out from the inside. I can barely keep my eyes open when Tate mentions dinner. I’m not hungry.

“You need to sleep.” He picks me up from the couch where I was laying and carries me down the hall to a different bedroom than I was in before.

His bedroom is bigger than the guest room, dominated by a king-size bed with dark sheets. He hands me one of his t-shirts to sleep in, and I change in the bathroom, trying not to think about the fact that I’m about to crawl into bed with Tate Sinclair.

When I come out, he’s already in bed, shirtless, the sheets pooled at his waist. The tattoos I glimpsed earlier cover his chest and arms, dark ink sprawling across muscle. He looks dangerous even lying down. And even sexier than I knew he would.

“Get in.” He pulls back the covers on the other side.

I climb in and lie stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling. The bed is huge, but I’m hyperaware of every inch of space between us.

“Is this okay?” His voice is dry. “I know how to keep my hands to myself, even if I don’t want to.”

“I know that.”

“Then try to relax. I don’t want you to be scared with me.”

I force myself to take a breath. He’s right. I’m being ridiculous. He’s seen me at my worst today—sobbing, shaking, admitting things I’ve never told anyone. Sharing a bed is nothing compared to that.

I roll onto my side, facing away from him, and close my eyes.

Sleep comes faster than I expected.

The nightmare is worse than usual.

I’m back in my father’s house in the room with the locked door. There are hands everywhere, too many hands, and I can’t see their faces, but I can hear them laughing. My father’s voice floats through the darkness. Be grateful. This is what you’re for.

I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I try to fight, but my arms won’t move. And then Michael is there, his breath hot against my ear, telling me all the things he’s going to do to me, and I can’t stop him, I can never stop him—

I wake up choking on a sob.

My heart is slamming so hard I can feel it in my throat. The room is dark and unfamiliar, and I don’t know where I am. I feel the warmth beside me, the body, and I almost scream before I remember.

I’m shaking violently, my whole body trembling like I’ve been dunked in ice water. The panic is a living thing inside my chest, clawing at my ribs, and I can’t breathe, I can’t think—

My fingers are in my mouth before I realize what I’m doing.

I suck hard, desperate, trying to ground myself. Two fingers pressed against my tongue, filling that space, giving me something to focus on. But it’s not enough. The panic is too big, the nightmare too fresh, and my fingers aren’t enough to push it back.

“Reese.”

His voice cuts through the darkness.

I yank my hand away from my mouth, shame flooding hot through my chest. He saw. Of course he saw. I know he said he doesn’t care, but I still don’t want him to see.

But I can’t fucking breathe.

“I’m . . . fine.” But I can barely speak the words through loud wheezes.

“You’re not fine.” The bed shifts as he moves closer.

His hand finds my face in the darkness, cupping my jaw. I’m still shaking, still fighting to breathe, sobbing which is only making it worse, and his touch is the only solid thing in the world.

“Breathe, baby girl.”