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“I could ask you the same thing,” Prescott raises his brows in a silent question. “What are you doing in the gym at three in the morning, Jade?”
I raise my chin. “I asked you first.”
A frown appears between his brows, and the urge to lean forward and smooth my finger over the wrinkled lines is almost overwhelming.
“Couldn’t sleep. I figured I could try to get out some of that energy in the gym.”
“At three in the morning with a bruise the size of Texas covering your side?”
Something dark crosses his face, making the hairs at the nape of my neck stand tall. “It’s not the first time I’ve worked out or played through the pain.”
No, I imagine it’s not. If somebody was used to the pain, it was Prescott.
“Your turn.” Prescott’s foot taps mine. “What brings you here in the dead of the night?”
The image of my still body lying in bed flashes before my eyes. My stomach tightens, and bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down, pushing to my feet.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I mutter, turning my back to him.
The dark circles under my eyes.
Crouching down, I grab my gloves and slide them back on my hands. I make my way to the bag, getting back in my stance and throwing a quick jab at the bag, and another, and another, trying to get back the peacefulness I felt as I got lost in the monotony of the familiar motions. But my mind is too restless, the memory of my nightmare too vivid in my mind.
The unnatural hollowness of my cheeks.
Prescott appears in front of me, his hands gripping the bag to steady it. My eyes meet his as I throw another combination. He holds still, steady, taking in punch after punch I deliver without uttering a word. His eyes hold mine, and something that looks a lot like understanding flashes in their depths.
The shaved head.
I throw a right hook at the bag, letting out a frustrated scream.
Another and another and another until the bag is gone, a firm chest appearing in my line of sight. Prescott grabs my wrists, holding strong as I try to tug my hands out of his grip, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he pulls me to his chest, his arms wrapping around my middle.
“It’s okay,” Prescott whispers softly.
I let him pull me closer, shaking my head. His fingers sprawl over my back, one hand rising to the back of my head and holding me still.
I inhale deeply, his citrusy scent overwhelming my senses. I flex my fingers, curling them around the soft material of his shirt and pulling him closer to me, letting that scent ground me. Letting him ground me.
Familiar, warm, real.
This is real.
“It’s all going to be okay.”
A hiccup rips out of my lungs—half sob, half manic laugh.
No, it’s not.
Nothing is okay.
But I can’t say it out loud. I can’t admit it. I can’t tell him or anybody else about my nightmares because if I do, I’d have to admit what is going on with me. I’d have to say it out loud, and if I do, it’ll make it real when it’s the last thing I want.
“Jade.”
My name is a half groan, half plea. Prescott’s palm cups my cheek, tilting my head back. Those dark eyes look at me, his thumb brushing against my cheekbone and erasing one lone tear that escaped.
“Fuck,” he mutters, demons dancing in his eyes. Vivid and restless, just like mine.
