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Chapter One
I was sick of the nightmares.
I’d spent most of my life experiencing dreamless sleeps, with an occasional foray into the realm of vision-quest-type prophecy dreams. But nightmares were new for me.
For the first two months I didn’t know what to do about them. I was convinced it was a sure-fire sign I had been taken back into my own living version of hell. But I’d killed the man responsible for my suffering. His head had been severed with one fell swoop, a faster and easier death than he deserved.
I’d tasted his blood when it sprayed across my face.
He was dead and could never hurt me or those I loved again.
But that didn’t keep the dreams at bay.
In the dark of night, the gentle caress of hands would traverse my body with the familiarity of a lover, playing across my skin with the barest touch. The fingers would stop over my heart, one palm resting between my breasts, tickling the sensitive area above my sternum.
In my dreams I can’t move.
The fingers thrum, but the nails grow and grow until little half-moon-shaped puddles of blood begin to pool, and suddenly my pale skin is stained pink.
In my dreams I can’t scream.
Those nails get longer until the fingers are buried two knuckles deep in my chest and my heart shudders.
The Doctor leans in close, his sinister grin looming tight and charmingly evil in the dark. He licks his lips and says, “Heal this, bitch.”
Before he rips my heart out.
I woke up in a cold sweat, panting for breath.
My sheets had long since been kicked off and lay in a tangle at the end of the bed. At some point during the nightmare I’d found the gun under my pillow, and it was still clutched in my hand when I came around.
I’d disengaged the safety again.
It was no wonder Desmond didn’t sleep next to me anymore.
Lying still, I counted my breaths until they returned to a normal rhythm. My eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly, giving me plenty of time to stare at the tin ceiling tiles before I climbed out of bed. I didn’t need to peek through the curtains to know night had fallen. If it were still daylight, I wouldn’t be up.
Leaving the gun on the dresser, I grabbed my robe from the back of the door and padded barefoot into the big, open-concept living area of the hotel suite. Whereas the bedroom was a cocoon of inky blackness, the living room was lit by a dozen different lamps, and everything seemed brighter because of all the white-and-cream tones of the space.
Desmond was sitting on the big linen-covered sofa, his loafer-clad feet propped up on the low coffee table and his laptop balanced across his thighs. He glanced up, and his fingers went still on the keys.
“Hey.” His soft voice was the most comforting thing I could think of.
“Hey.” I moved across the room, but instead of sitting beside him on the couch I sat cross-legged on the coffee table, pulling his feet onto my lap and hugging them to my stomach. He wriggled his toes to tickle my belly.
“How bad was it?” He closed the laptop and set it aside, showing me I had his full attention. It was sweet but unnecessary. He’d been living with my nightmares for months; he didn’t need a play-by-play anymore.
“Same as usual.”
