The episodes began after my twenty-first birthday.
Afterhim.
After a stranger stole a treasure no longer mine to offer in love.
Following that night, the Russian kept coming. In my nightmares, he claimed what wasn’t his. Over and over again. Until sleep stopped feeling safe. But last night …
Something changed. I remembered the paralysis. Darkness sat on my chest, a suffocating weight. Then peace. Not forced.Not fabricated. Just … there. A warmth that wrapped around me. A heartbeat that wasn’t mine.
Still, I should’ve woken up shaken. I always did.
Instead, I stirred slowly, blinking through a blissful haze.
This wasn’t my bedroom.
My heart jerked.
The walls were masculine. Not mine. The ceiling? Unfamiliar. And beneath the linen-scented comforter, someone dozed. Behind me.
Every inch of him hardened muscle and heat.
My stomach dropped, the calm replaced by swooshing breaths.
No. No. NO!
I dug my fingers into the cushions to anchor myself. Didn’t work.
The claws came out. Scratching. My elbow shot back, wild and fast.
A startled grunt met my ears.
Powerful hands caught mine—gentle, not forceful.
“Natasha—Tasha—it’s me. It’s me.”
That voice.
Lachlan.
In my mind, the puzzle of how perfectly we fit together clicked into place.
The couch. The laughter. Talking about Momma, Pop, the inflatable punching bag. Falling asleep in his arms. Lawd.
I shot into a seated position, shoulders collapsed, face burning as my chest rose and fell in jagged bursts. The nightmare clung to me like a second skin. But this was real too. He was real.
“I’m sorry,” I choked. “Didn’t mean to?—”
“Don’t be sorry.” Lachlan settled beside me without closing the distance. “You were scared. Crying out.”
“Yeah.” I wrapped my arms around my knees.
Concern carved his handsome face. He examined me like he anticipated something beyond my single-word answer.
I bit my bottom lip to stop from apologizing again. And to kill this conversation.
“Tash, baby, you knowI knowyou have family secrets. I respect that. You shared your fight with leukemia in your own time. So, I … hope you’ll tell me about this too. When you’re ready.”
Never. I refused to tell anyone. Not my therapist. Not my parents. No one. This nightmare lived inside of me. But Lach never rushed. He never pressed, even when his momma showed those blackmail photos of him as a child. Nan was wrong for that. But she was open, approachable. So much different from the usual portrayal of a syndicate’s matriarch. Dang, those stereotypes. Hopefully, I disproved comparable falsehoods about Pop and Uncle Sim last night.
