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Chelsea wondered every day what to do about Redmond’s heavier, more intrusive silence. She felt him slipping out of the slow progress he’d made with the therapist, and it felt like his most recent visit proved ineffective after what had happened at the diner. Redmond had visibly regressed, going as far as declining his daughter’s visits and staying home whenever he wasn’t working.
Chelsea had so much work to do, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the man who had stolen her heart and then allowed himself to be crushed beneath his. Part of her loved the way he held her tightly, using her to keep the demons at bay. She thought that she’d gladly take on anything for the sake of his mental health, but battling his demons allowed them to maintain a firmer grip on her.
She realized that only he would be enough of a shield against his demons. She couldn’t do it for him.
They had taken to sleeping in one another’s arms, and Redmond typically slept like a rock, but his movement awoke her. It had been a week since the shooting, and he’d been worsening progressively as the week went by. His jerking and nearly silent whimpering didn’t surprise Chelsea. She rolled over and stroked his forearm, hoping to soothe the nightmares away before they worsened.
The gesture had worked on her when he did it a few weeks back.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m here.”
His eyes shifted in the sockets, and his agitation grew. She needed to stop it before it worsened. She needed to dosomething, though Chelsea had no idea what. Should she wake him to end the nightmare? If she did that, would he be able to drift back into sleep, or would she ruin the night for him?
Chelsea thought about the nightmares she had about the men who had kidnapped and tortured her. She sometimes dreamed that they broke her fingers again. Sometimes their faces would transform into heinous dogs as they tore out her throat.
Sometimes, in the most horrific nightmares, their faces became Redmond’s.
She knew, though, that the one thing that brought her out of her nightmares was realizing that they weren’t real. Sometimes, she could pull herself from the dreams, and sometimes, another person waking her became the only option. Personally, she’d prefer him to wake her if the situation were reversed.
She hoped Redmond felt the same.
Chelsea yawned and turned the bedside lamp on before turning back to Redmond. She gripped his forearm and shook it gently. “Red, you need to wake up.” He jerked at her voice but didn’t awake. “It’s a dream. You need to wake up.”
Redmond’s eyes shot open, expressionless and darting about the room. They remained unfocused until his pupils hovered over her face, focusing in on her with a brutal intensity. She saw the terror. The uncontrollable rage. The misery. All the emotions that Redmond kept so tightly behind a mask reflected on her as she looked down on him.
“Who are you?” he grumbled; his words barely distinguishable.
“Redmond—”
She didn’t have the chance to finish her words as he shifted his weight. Chelsea slammed onto the hard bed beneath him, and he straddled her. Her hand that had moments ago been caressing his arm rested above her head, crushed in his vice-like grip. He pinned her other hand beneath his knee.
Redmond’s hand circled around her throat, and Chelsea didn’t get the same shivers of delight that she’d gotten from the last time he had his hand in the same spot.
This time, she was afraid.
“Redmond, let me go,” she said. Her voice trembled as she tried to wiggle free.
“Who are you?” he shouted in her face. Chelsea whimpered and flinched as his grip tightened around both her wrist and her throat. His eyes darted around her face and then around the room.
He had no idea where he was—who he was.
He wasn’t even awake.
“I’m Chelsea. You know me, Red. Please, let me go,” she begged.
“You’re lying.” His grip became a death trap. She could no longer suck in a breath, and no matter how hard she threw her body to the side, he wouldn’t move. “You’re lying,” he repeated, shaking her beneath him.
Chelsea gagged and coughed. The pressure in her head grew with each second that he held onto her, and she felt the wet trail of tears as they ran down her face. She mouthed the wordplease, but he’d lost all sense of himself and all sense of control. Chelsea had been so ignorant to have believed that she could have helped a man as damaged as him. Only Redmond could help himself.
And if she didn’t get out, he’d kill her. He’d never forgive himself for it, but he’d do it, even if he had no idea what he was doing.
Chelsea, in a last effort to remove his hand from around her throat, did the one thing she could think to do. With all her remaining strength, she lifted the knee that rested between his legs as hard as possible. Redmond tensed and loosened his grip on her. It was enough. She hooked her feet around his and pivoted her hips, throwing him from the bed. Chelsea flung herself the other way, rushing toward the door. She had it open and had a foot out the door when she realized he hadn’t chased after her.
Chelsea wasn’t a fool. In fact, she was an incredibly intelligent woman—more intelligent than most people gave her credit for. But when she looked back into the dimly lit room, she found him cradling himself on the floor. He held his manhood in his hands, but when he met her eyes, she saw the Redmond she recognized.
“Chelsea,” he groaned.
She shook her head, refusing to step forward. He’d tried to kill her. Intentionally or not, he’d nearly done it—nearly ended her life.
