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“Yes?” Her voice sounds more alert now.
“Do you remember what gave you the nightmare?”
“No.” There’s a pause, a fluttering against my side as her fingers tap out a rhythm I can’t hear. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the one I always have.”
Dare I ask? The air vibrates above us, all around us, with that three-a.m. magic that somehow impairs judgment, that encourages people who are normally perfectly rational to spill their secrets and lie next to the one person they shouldn’t. “And which one is that?”
It takes her a moment to answer. “The paparazzi … they’re chasing me. Their cameras are humongous and I’m running, and I trip. And every time they take a photo, somehow a new scratch appears somewhere on my body.” She’s trembling and I turn slightly toward her, lending her my warmth, my strength. “By the end of the dream, I’m dripping blood and weak and they’re gaining on me. Just before I wake up, I fall down a cliff, and all I can see are those cameras, snapping away. The people themselves are safely hidden behind them, and they don’t care what happens to me, so long as they get their photos.”
How awful. “Aw, Princess.” I tuck her head against my chest. “You’re safe.”
“I know. For now.”
“For always. I’ll make sure of it.”
Her fingers play with the bottom of my shirt, skimming the skin just underneath. “You can keep me safe physically, Muscles. You’re very good at that. But there are some scars that go deeper than flesh.”
Are we still talking about the press … or a person? I lean back so I can look in her face, and before I know what I’m doing, I place my hand against her cheek. “Who hurt you, Princess?” The intensity of my words should scare me, but I feel a strange calm as I say them. “Because I swear I’ll rip him limb from limb if you just tell me his name.”
She leans into my touch and smiles. “I believe you would. But it isn’t just one person—oh, sure, one of my rubbish ex-boyfriends once sold a story to the media outlets feeding them some garbage about what a bad kisser I am.”
“Just give me a name,” I rumble. “But also, what an absolute idiot. I can vouch for that rumor being completely untrue.”
Sakes. I shouldnothave said that.
Thankfully, Chloe chuckles. “You aren’t so bad yourself there, Muscles.” The sound of her laughter hits me in the chest, a warmth I can’t explain growing, expanding. But then she sighs and frowns, and right alongside her, I fall down that cliffside from her nightmare. “And no, I’m not giving you his name, because he truly is inconsequential to me. Of course, there was also Troy.”
Oh, yes. Troy Benson, that blighter Chloe dated in her early twenties, the one with the trust fund and political connections up the Thames. It was a good thing Topher and I were away at university for most of their relationship, because every time that pretty boy put his hands on the princess, I nearly broke my own jaw with how hard I ground my teeth. I’d love an excuse to check up on good old Troy now and teach him a thing or two about respecting women. “What did he do?” I can’t help the way I’m positively growling.
“Freddy.” She sounds embarrassed—or perhaps delighted?—with my much too passionate response. “He didn’t do anything. Not like that.” A pause. A frown. “He just … well, he abandoned me. The media decided to portray me negatively, he couldn’t take what my life entailed, and he dumped me for an American supermodel.”
“What a pathetic excuse for a man.”
“I don’t think about him much, anymore. I’m over him. But still … people who claim to love you shouldn’t leave.”
She says she’s over him, but her words are tinged with so much sadness.
“I’m sorry, Princess. He should have treasured what he had in you.” I shouldn’t say more—I can’t. Not without laying my feelings completely bare before her. So I shift the focus back to the reason I’m here beside her in the first place. “So, the nightmare. If it’s not about Troy …”
“Then what is it about? Thankfully, I don’t think I need to read any books on dream interpretation as I think this one is quite clear.”
My hand drops so I can see her face. Not knowing where else to place it, I let it fall to her hip. Probably a mistake, but blinking, I refocus on what she’s saying. “You hate being in the limelight?”
“It’s less about that and feeling like”—she bites her lip—“like I’m just a joke to my entire country. My whole life, they’ve been watching and finding me wanting.”
“Then they’re idiots. They don’t know you like I do.”
“You’re entirely too sweet to me.” She pauses. “I could go on and on, but I should let you go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you up with my thrashing.”
“I was already awake.” I won’t tell her why. “And if you need to go on and on, I’ll listen.” Because truthfully, I want to know what lies she’s believing so I can soothe them away with the truth. Or, if she doesn’t need answers from me, I love being allowed to hold her, to give her some measure of peace.
Even if it’s just for tonight.
* * *
It’s a little while before she speaks again, her voice hushed in remembrance. “When I was young, I didn’t really pay attention to the cameras. They just were a part of my life. I even started to love the attention they brought me. I felt pretty and special, and what little girl doesn’t want to feel like that?”
I want to tell her she has every right to feel those things, but I’m silent. My thumb circles the smooth silk of her PJs, saying things my voice can’t.
