The world jerks into focus.
I’m not on a cold tile floor. Vik’s holding me, one arm wrapped tight around my back, his hand cradling the side of my face like he’s scared I might shatter.
“You were shaking,” he says, breathless. “Fuck, did I do this?”
I stare. I’m not trapped anymore.
“You weren’t screaming, but I could hear you thrashing. You kept sayingstop... I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t—”
I don’t hear the rest.
Because instinct takes over.
I break free from his grasp, rolling away and grabbing the blade my body knows to grab from under the mattress edge. In one swift move, I’m on top of him—knees pinning his hips, my forearm pressing into his collarbone, the cold edge of the knife glinting at his throat.
His eyes go wide. Not with fear—just shock.
Did I kill that man?
“Greesha,” he breathes, hands lifted, open. “It’s... it’s me.”
And just like that, reality caves in.
I’m in bed. My sheets are damp with sweat around me. I feel the soft push of the mattress against my knees.
The blood is gone. The fists never landed. The man in the balaclava was never real. The nightmare loosens its grip. He wasn’treal.
Butthisis.
Vik, beneath me, still healing from his wounds, holding perfectly still—his only weapon now a look of absolute calm and concern. My one arm is accidentally digging into his shoulder but he still doesn’t react.
I drop the knife.
It lands with a soft thud on the sheets between us.
I push off of him, chest heaving, pulse racing like I’ve run ten miles through a minefield.
“I—I didn’t...” I choke. “That man was...”
He doesn’t move right away. Just watches me from where he’s lying, like he’s afraid one wrong gesture will send me spiraling again.
“It’s okay,” he whispers finally. “You don’t have to explain. Just...come back.”
But I don’t know wherebackis anymore.
Because right now, I’m not sure which version of me woke up.
He rises with a wince, jaw clenched tight. I can see the pain shoot through him as he steadies himself with one arm. I probably ripped his stitches.Fuck.
His other hand circles around my waist while I’m still straddled across his thighs.
But it’s not affection. It’s survival.
He’s holding on because hehasto. Because without it, I don’t think he’d be able to sit up at all. I can feel his subtle weight on my back.
“You’re okay, baby,” he whispers hoarsely. His face close to mine.
The words land like an echo from another life.
