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“Esme.”
I struggle to open my eyes, but they’re glued together. Too heavy. Everything is so damn heavy.
“I’m here, Esme.” The voice is panicked. Strained. “I’ve got you, princess.”
I normally hate when people call me princess. But not this voice. I like whenthisvoice calls me princess. Miss hearing this voice calling me princess.
“Creed,” I croak out his name, reaching in the dark for him.
Is he even here? Or am I imagining it? Why can’t I feel him? I want to feel him. Want his arms around me.
“It’s just a dream. Try to fight it. Whatever you see isn’t real. I swear to you it’s not.”
A hand brushes my face, pushing my sweat-drenched hair behind my ear, the voice becoming clearer still. Less cloudy. Less muted.
“I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re dreaming. Tell yourself that. Tell yourself it’s not real. Just focus on my voice. Because that’s real. Nothing else is. Just me. Only me, princess.”
With every assurance he gives me, the more the flames licking my skin seem to subside, his words extinguishing the fire. My surroundings slowly disappear. No car. No man with a gun. My body’s no longer too exhausted to move, my eyelids no longer heavy.
I flutter them several times before opening them, Creed’s concerned gaze the first thing I see. I’m disoriented at first, wondering if this is a dream, too. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve dreamt of Creed over the years.
But when he lifts a hand to my face and cups my cheek, I can feel the warmth of his skin. Feel the calluses on his hand.
“Creed…” I begin, unsure what to say.
“It’s okay.” He expels a long breath, shoulders falling. “You’re okay.”
I’m not sure if he says it for my benefit or his.
Maybe both.
“How… How are you here?” I manage to ask through my scratchy voice.
He pulls back, straightening. My eyes float to the bandage on his arm before raking down the rest of his frame. He’s shirtless, clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants.
All these years later, and Creed Lawson in a pair of gray sweatpants still does it for me. Still makes my pulse increase.
“I heard you calling for help. Thought…” He runs a hand over his face as he shakes his head. “Thought someone had gotten to you. Almost didn’t barge in after, well…” He smiles sheepishly before his expression sobers once more. “But when I heard you screaming, I knew it wasn’t that, so I came in to help coax you out of it.”
“You didn’t just shake me awake?”
“You never wake up somebody in the middle of a night terror.”
“Night terror?” I sit up, the duvet falling off me. I welcome the cool air, especially after my dream. The flames felt so real.
All of it felt so real.
“It’s common to experience them after enduring something traumatic.” He pauses. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I lift my gaze to his and part my lips. Then I stand, walking toward my dresser and pulling out a fresh pair of pajama bottoms and t-shirt. Slipping into the bathroom, I run a cool washcloth over my face before changing. When I return to the bedroom, Creed’s no longer sitting on the bed, but standing.
Renewed heat washes over me. This time, it’s not because of my nightmare. Instead, it’s because of how damn incredible he looks. Broad chest, defined muscles, and that delicious little V that disappears into his pants.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him this way. Not when I just dreamed about my two near-death experiences, one of which involved his brother. I can’t seem to control myself when he’s around, though.
“I needed to change,” I explain as I make my way back toward the bed, pulling the duvet up and sitting on it. Creed arches a brow, asking for permission to sit. I nod and he lowers himself onto the mattress, keeping his distance.
“So…do you want to talk about your dream?” he asks again. “Sometimes it helps.”
