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It’s not freezing, not at all, and I suspect her reaction is more from the contents of that nightmare, than the room’s temperature. I grab a throw blanket off the nearby chair and wrap it around her. “Thank you,” she whispers, but she doesn’t look at me.
I stroke her hair. “You okay?”
She nods, still no look. “Yes. Just—just a bad dream.” She curls tighter into herself, withdrawing, which I get. It’s how she’s survived. It’s what she does to push forward and from what I can tell of her family and York, that’s a practice she’s long embraced.
“I’ll grab you the hotel robe,” I say, and I don’t wait for her reply. I sense she needs a minute to herself and I get that. There are things in my past that don’t exactly warrant sharing either, things I cope with on my own. Understanding this, I give her a minute, pushing to my feet and snatching up my pants, pulling them on.
I round the corner into the bedroom, open the closet just outside the bathroom and pull out the robe. The minute I turn with the intent of returning to Emma, she appears in front of me, clutching the throw blanket at her breasts. “I should shower. I have to deal with Marion this morning.”
She’s edgy, a doe in headlights, ready to run. I catch her hip and step into her, dragging her against me. “Don’t do that,” I order softly. “Don’t shut me out.”
Her fingers curl on my chest and for a moment she doesn’t look at me. She also doesn’t deny that she’s shutting me out. “Emma,” I prod softly, wondering what the fuck that bastard did to her.
Her gaze lifts to mine. “I’m here, Jax. I’m not shutting you out.”
I risk saying what I promised not to say. “I’m not him.”
“If you were,” she says, “I wouldn’t be here. I’d have done more than shut you out. I’d have shut you down.”
“Then talk to me. What was that about? Is it a regular thing?”
“I have nightmares when I feel like I’m spinning out of control. It’s a control freak thing. And I’ve had nightmares since I started reading the journal. That’s all.”
“What kind of nightmares?”
“It’s not about some deep dark secret that you want to know, and I know already. I can’t remember much of anything when I wake up, the memories are just tiny, shattered pieces. I just know I wake up cold and a mess.” She presses her hand to her face and then drops it. “Maybe I know something I don’t know I know. Maybe they’re just about death. Maybe they’re nothing but me falling off a cliff because I feel so damn out of control right now. I don’t know. What I do know is that I really need coffee, a shower, and to have Marion out of my day.”
Falling off a cliff. These words rip through me and I can feel my fingers digging into her arms. She didn’t mean to connect dots to my past, to my brother. I don’t sense that in her. I don’t believe she’s fucking with my head, but still, I let her go. “I’ll order coffee.”
She doesn’t walk away. Her eyes search my face. “My turn. What just happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
She grabs my belt and I don’t believe that’s an accident. It’s her trying to tell me she really is here with me. “What just happened?” she presses again.
I stare down at her and I can feel the edge inside me ripping and cutting from words that mean nothing to her and everything to me. “Nothing that coffee and you can’t solve.” I strip away the throw blanket, cup her naked backside, and carry her toward the shower. We both need to fuck. And after that, I’m going to find the person, or persons, who fucked my brother and fuck them, too, but unlike Emma, they won’t enjoy it.
I enter the bathroom, still holding Emma as I turn on the shower and then set her on her feet, kissing her as I do. Getting rid of my pants is fast, and I all but carry Emma into the shower with me. When cold water hits us, she cries out with the shock and I grunt, righting the water, and just that easily, we’re laughing—I’m fucking laughing when a minute earlier I was coming out of my own skin. And she was, too, for that matter.
I press her into the corner, and somehow, we end up just staring at each other, seconds ticking by, lust and anger shifting, changing to something different, something I don’t recognize as familiar. My hand slides to her neck, under her hair, and I drag her mouth to mine. “What are you doing to me, woman?” I ask, my mouth closing down on hers, and when I kiss her, it’s a tender stroke of tongue. And when I enter her, when I slide deep inside her, it’s not fucking. It’s raw and real, a deep hollow inside me where anger and a burn for revenge have lived fills with her. She’s my motivation now. She’s changed why I’m here.
