AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Forget the handwoven Persian rug that lines the passageway; forget the bold Tuscan paintings on the walls—thisis a work of art.
I fold the picture up carefully and slip it into my pocket for safekeeping. Then I continue down the hall, trying to remember all the other scents I’d been partial to before my senses were invaded with notes of endless citrus.
I’m deep in my own thoughts when I hear something.
Screaming.
“Aaaarghhh. No. No. Please…. Ahh!”
Panic surges through my body. That scream is immediately recognizable.
Josh.
And then I’m running. I’m running faster than I’ve ever run in my life.
Whoever breached through all the layers of security I’ve wrapped around this estate is gonna get a gold medal for doing the impossible and getting inside.
Right before I tear him apart—limb from goddamn limb.
I burst into the boy’s room with my fists at the ready. But all I see is a frightened child writhing around in his bed.
It’s not an invader.
It’s a nightmare.
He’s still thrashing in place when I approach his bed, his face scrunched up with anxiety. He’s sweating right through the bedding. I put my hand on arm and give him a firm shake. He gasps, jerking upright, his arms flailing in every direction.
“It’s okay. It’s just me. Ruslan.”
He pushes against my hold for a couple of seconds, still struggling in the thicket of his nightmare. I have to keep repeating myself before his eyes finally blink away the sleep and focus on me.
“R-Ruslan?” His voice is cracked with fear but there’s relief muddled in there, too. “S-sorry,” is the second thing out of his mouth.
“Why are you apologizing?”
He wraps his arms around himself. “I-I didn’t mean to disturb anyone. I usually don’t.”
I frown. “Josh, how often do you have these nightmares?”
The whites of his eyes are prominent in the gloom. “Most nights,” he admits, dropping his face down low.
Why didn’t Emma tell me about this? I’m so pissed off that the veins in my forearms bulge in protest. A part of me is aware that my anger is irrational. Kinda like it was two days ago when I overheard Emma’s conversation with her mother.
I stood in the archway, eavesdropping unrepentantly as her mother tore into her about being a bad guardian and not putting the children first. At first, she fought back. But then, the more her mother yelled, the more Emma basically shut down. It was like she believed all the vile things her bitch of a mother was spouting. It was like she felt shehadto sit there and take it.
Then there was the moment Emma turned and noticed me standing there. I wanted to fucking roar at her:Why aren’t you fighting back? Why aren’t you defending yourself? Don’t you see how wrong she is?
But that look in her eyes—that hopeless, lost look—was too much to take. It was in danger of pulling me back in and I couldn’t let that happen. Not again.
I’m done being her savior. Or as Reagan liked to say,her knight in silver armor.She’s already in my home, taking up space, breathing my air. That has to be enough.
Hell, even that feels like too much.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” I ask the boy. He shakes his head, his eyes softening. I dab his sweaty brow with the back of my hand. “Your aunt didn’t tell me you were having these nightmares.”
His eyes go wide. “No, Ruslan! You can’t tell her. She doesn’t know.”
So she doesn’t know. Somehow, that doesn’t make me any less angry with her.
