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“No. No.” Her arms flail at air. “Don’t touch me!”
Don’t touch me.
A flash of the image of her lying on the shards of glass, bleeding, plays before my eyes. I see how the jeans are open. See the shred of panties beneath.
She hadn’t been sexually assaulted according to the police report.
Isabelle whimpers like a frightened child.
“Isabelle. Wake up.” I place a hand on her stomach. It’s gentle but I hope reassuring. But it’s the wrong thing to do because it triggers her. She grabs my forearm with both hands nails digging into flesh.
“No! No! No!”
I sit up and she starts slapping at my chest, my face.
“Wake up, Isabelle. It’s a dream. Wake up!”
When she draws her nails down my chest drawing blood, I grip her wrists, holding them in one hand and hugging her to me tight.
“Wake up, Isabelle. It’s a dream. Just a dream.”
“Christian?” she blurts, drawing back, eyelids flying open, blue eyes wide and frantic and searching. “Christian!”
I hold onto her, watching her. She’s calling for her brother.
“You’re having a dream, Isabelle. A bad dream. You’re safe.”
She watches me as I speak, eyes coming into focus on my face, then around me, taking in the surroundings. Her body goes limp as she remembers.
“Let me go.”
I nod. Slowly release her. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She looks away, wipes her eyes. She pushes the blanket off her legs.
“Where are you going?”
“My room.”
When she moves to stand, I set a hand on her arm to stop her. “You need a glass of water.”
“I’m fine. Let me go.” She won’t look at me.
I get up. “Stay,” I tell her and go into the bathroom to get her a glass of water.
Remarkably when I return, she’s still sitting there. Her eyes are red and she’s trying to hide the fact she was crying.
“Here,” I say, holding out the water.
She takes it, drinks one sip and hands it back. I set it aside.
“Can I go now?” she asks not quite looking at me.
“You’ll sleep in my bed tonight.”
She glares up at me. “I thought you weren’t interested in sleep.”
Ah. She has a good memory. I smile. “Lie down.”
