Page 60 of Ricochet

CHAPTER 28

Aubree

Shouts yanked me from dreams, and I shot upright, head whipping back and forth, my breaths rapid and muscles trembling. I took in the stillness of my room, the darkness that seemed undisturbed, aside from the flutter of drapes dancing in the breeze created by my cracked window.

Just a dream.

Laying back against the pillow, I settled into the warmth of my blanket —until another outcry, tortured and pained, echoed beyond my door.

Nick.

I shot out of bed and padded across the room, toward the door, placing my ear against the wooden panel.

“Lena! Lena! No! Fucking bastards! No! We’ll kill you! We’ll kill you all!”

We?

I opened the door to find Blue with his head perked, as if to say, you hear what’s going on? His whine told me he worried for his master, and he didn’t so much as snarl when I tiptoed past him to Nick’s opened bedroom door.

Clutching his doorframe, I watched the way his thrashing body had the bed pounding into the wall. The sheets lay in a white tangle across him. He arched his back, creating a perfect arc of agony, muscles so tight they looked as if they’d snap beneath his skin. His kicks and grunts clutched my heart, as I observed his sufferance in dreams.

The yearning to go to him, soothe him, had me pushing against the door, widening the crack.

No. Don’t do it.

“Don’t do this! Jay!” His bellow bounced off the walls and halted my steps.

Who were those names he called out in his sleep? Why did he sound as if he’d been immersed in something real, truly enduring some kind of pain and torment?

A glisten of sweat coated his skin, discernible in the moon’s light. His brows creased to a frown heavy with pain, and his body trembled, along with my own.

“Nick,” I murmured. The draw to lie beside him, to calm him, pulled me further into the room, as instinct beckoned me to go to him and quiet his agony.

He planked on the bed as his curses filled the air.

Backing away toward the door, I slipped out of the room the moment his eyes flipped open. My heart slammed into my ribs, and I gasped at the near miss.

From the hallway, I peeked through the crack, watching him jolt upright, to the edge of the bed, where he held his head, rocking back and forth. His rapid breaths were broken by whimpers, and I caught a glint of something he snatched off the nightstand beside him.

His arm shook as he held it outright and sliced his skin with a long blade.

An empathetic voice called out from somewhere deep inside of me— I’d had it ingrained into me from an early age to heal others, thanks to my beautiful mother. It was that which’d led me to work as a therapist, the desire to help ease someone’s pain. Staring at Nick, although he was my kidnapper, had me feeling no less compassion. An ache bloomed inside my heart as he cradled his carved arm.

As fierce and dominating as he seemed, the man was broken. Tortured by something. Wracked by some kind of pain.

What?

It was a question that plagued my mind as I padded back to my room.

***

I folded the book, laid it on the bed beside me, and sat up when Nick appeared in my bedroom doorway, nearly a dozen bags hanging from his grip. Entering, he set them down before returning to the hallway, from where he grabbed shoe boxes and a blue milk crate, arranging all the items in the center of the room.

Though it remained covered, I couldn’t help but stare at his arm where I knew a scar had begun to take form.

I slid my legs over the side of the bed, still unsure of what the hell was going on, but curiosity got the best of me, and at a slight nudge of his head giving me approval, I crawled toward the bags.

Each one carried an assortment of dresses, shirts, jeans, tanks, panties, and toiletries. There were two shoe boxes—a pair of Chucks and combat boots, exactly the style I’d worn before meeting Michael. As if he’d somehow reached into my past.