Page 102 of The Bones in the Yard

I also didn’t have enough energy to give a shit. All I cared about was the fact that I could still feel the warmth of Taavi’s body under my legs and Pet’s fluffy bulk by my feet, snuggled up against both me and Taavi.

When I next drifted back in, it was to the sound of Pet’s feet hitting the floor as Taavi gently shifted my legs, easing himself off the couch.

“Where goin’?” I mumbled, my brain more awake than my mouth.

“Bathroom,” came the response. “Then we should get you to bed.”

“Mmmm.” I didn’t disagree, exactly, now that both of my sources of warmth were gone, but I also wasn’t happy about the prospect of moving.

Taavi wasn’t about to let me sleep on the couch, though, half-hauling me to my feet and leading me into the bedroom. He helped me undress, a process that was deeply disappointing, because he was very gentle and efficient, and I was too fucking tired to appreciate the fact that he was helping me take my clothes off—all I wanted to do was sleep.

Despite having slept and dozed all evening, the moment the lights were off, I was gone, plunged into darkness.

It was really too bad that my stupid brain wasn’t going to actually let me stay there. I managed a good solid four hours before I woke up with my heart pounding and the taste of bile in the back of my throat.

I made it to the bathroom—barely—before the horrors I’d witnessed over the years forced my dinner from me.

God-fucking-damnit.

I was too fucking tired and drained for this shit. And on top of it, I felt guilty as fuck for inflicting my usually-infrequent nightmares on Taavi not once, but twice now.

This time, when he padded into the bathroom, it was on silent bare human feet, no clicking of doggy nails on the tile.

I didn’t bother to look up, my head resting on my hand as I stared into the empty toilet bowl.

Taavi moistened a washcloth and set it on the back of my neck.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. I absolutely did not want to talk about the fact that I still saw skinned shifters—dogs, specifically—in my dreams. That my sleeping brain dredged up the hypothetical horror of digging up Taavi’s Xolo body from the mud and muck, the sounds of crickets in my ears and the slick, sickening chill of ghostly fingers running over my arms and spine.

Taavi gently rested his hand on my back, sitting on the side of the tub.

Fuck it. It wasn’t like he’d never seen me like this.

I turned, leaning into his legs, and he pulled me in, caging me with his legs as he smoothed his fingers over my hair, letting me wet the skin of his thigh with my sweat and tears as the sobs crashed through me.

I didn’t want to talk about it, and yet I heard the words tumbling from my lips in spite of myself, telling him about the shifters at the warehouse, how I saw them, saw an imagined version ofhim, strung up and skinned, dripping blood that never stopped while screams and howls echoed in through my brain, even though I was now totally awake.

By the time I’d finished, he’d slid off the side of the tub and held me cradled against his chest, despite the fact that I’m a lot taller. The muscle of his shoulder and pectorals was surprisingly comfortable, and I let my weight lean into him, the warmth of his body warring with the chill of the bathroom tile and my own sweaty skin.

“I hate this,” I rasped out, finally.

“The nightmares?” he asked, his fingers still stroking over my hair.

“Those, too,” I confirmed. “But—this. Me. I’m just—”

Taavi sighed. “You are aware that nightmares like this are a sign of PTSD, right?”

“I don’t have PTSD,” I retorted. “I haven’t been through—”

“Anything traumatic?” He snorted. “Val, you were attacked,twice, in the two months I lived with you. You were repeatedly harassed. And I’m guessing neither of those was the first time.”

I shifted, uncomfortable—although more psychologically than physiologically. “Not—I mean, yeah, I’ve been insulted and threatened before. But not—not like that. But I’ve been through worse.”

“You are not helping your own point, Val.” His tone was dry, but not unsympathetic.

“Look, PTSD is some shit that combat veterans get. I’m just—”

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