I lived with Emily for almost two years and she never noticed—never even suspected. How could I have been so careless? I’m supposed to be the one uncovering information abouthim, extractinghissecrets, not the other way round. This whole operation is backwards and spiraling further out of my control with each passing day.
“Do you have nightmares?”
His question echoes in my head as I climb the stairs. I didn’t answer. Just turned and walked away. Because what was I supposed to say to that? The truth? What honest answer could I possibly give that wouldn’t reveal too much?
By the time I reach my room, my chest feels tight. I slip inside and lock the door behind me, then lean against the solid wood for a second, staring at the pretty grey walls while I try to organize my chaotic thoughts.
I probablyshouldhave nightmares after everything I’ve been through. But I don’t—not about the past, anyway. Not one. No screaming in the middle of the night, no cold sweats, nojolting awake with my parents’ blood splattered across my vision. Nothing.
Is that bad? Is something wrong with me?
Normal people have nightmares after going through hell, right? So what does it say about me that I sleep like nothing ever happened?Okay, maybe I don’t sleep like nothing ever happened—I can’t fall asleep at all on my own, which is its own kind of hell.
I push away from the door, feeling drowsy already as the pill starts hitting my system, and make my way to the bed where I collapse heavily onto the mattress.
Right from the moment Kayla and I arrived back in the States without our parents, I found myself battling insomnia. At eleven years old.
By the fifth night of not sleeping in my first foster home, I started hallucinating, screaming that I wanted to go home with my mom and dad who were right there waiting for me. My mood swings became violent and unpredictable—I threw things, sobbed for hours, then went completely silent for days.
My first foster family panicked and took me to the hospital, where a physical evaluation led to an official diagnosis of trauma-induced insomnia. What a groundbreaking discovery.
But at least the hospital sedated me, and I slept for what felt like forever. After that, I got prescription medicine. My system slowly adapted to it over time, and now I can’t fall asleep without those pills unless I work myself into raw, bone-deep exhaustion. If there’s even a spark of energy still thrumming through my veins, my brain simply won’t shut up long enough for me to drift off.
I tried going without the pills once, for two whole days after I aged out of the system and started my desperate search for Kayla. I regretted it almost immediately. I couldn’t find anything physically demanding enough to exhaust my brain into silence—notuntil I met Stacey and I joined the agency. After long, grueling missions, I could usually fall asleep easily without needing the pills. But only the first night back. After that, my system would revert right back to normal state. Or abnormal, I suppose.
My eyes squeeze shut, the familiar fog rolling in as my racing thoughts finally begin to fade and blur at the edges. A deep sigh leaves me as I let the pills drag me down into unconsciousness, and I disappear into a dreamless sleep.
I jerk awake a minute before my alarm goes off, my heart already racing for reasons I can’t identify, and I blink blearily up at the ceiling, trying to orient myself. What woke me? Did I hear something? Some noise from the hallway or downstairs?
Then the shrill beeping of my alarm suddenly splits the silence and I jackknife upright, the loud noise startling me even though I knew it was coming.
I turn it off and sluggishly roll out of bed, my body still heavy with the lingering effects of the medication.
Like I do every morning since I moved into this house, I walk out of my bedroom with one singular purpose—getting to the kitchen to claim the last of the coffee Roan always makes before leaving. My hands shake, my throat bobbing in anticipation as I catch the first hints of that strong, perfectly brewed coffee. It’s so much better than the tepid, watery stuff we get in the main mansion, and I’ve become borderline addicted to it.
But as I step into the hallway, a flash of blue catches my eye and I stop short, frowning in confusion. A huge teddy bear is sitting there, propped up against the wall like it’s been waiting for me. It’s soft-looking with shaggy fur that practically begs to be touched, and it’s wearing a little striped black and white bow tie that would be ridiculous if it wasn’t somehow adorable. Myfrown deepens because this is a weird sight to encounter in the hallway of a mafia boss’s house.
There’s a note attached to the bow tie with a piece of string, and I reluctantly reach out to grab it.
Relying on pills as a crutch is not healthy.
Cuddling with a teddy bear is supposed to help you relax and fall asleep naturally.
There’s no signature beneath the words, so theoretically it could be from anyone.
But it’s obviously from Roan.
My heart kicks up several notches as I glance down the hallway towards the lounge area, half expecting to see him standing there watching my reaction. But it’s empty. Roan probably left for work hours ago.
No one is here, yet I still feel observed somehow. My eyes drift up to the corner where I know there’s a CCTV camera, and a flicker of unease hits—what if he’s watching the feed right now from his office. The thought sends a fresh jolt through me, but I force it away, looking back down at the huge teddy bear.
I don’t even have to crouch to pick it up—it’s that big. I grab it, surprised by how light it is despite its size, and carry it back into my room, cradling it against my chest. “I guess you’re mine now,” I mutter to it, unable to resist running my fingers through the impossibly soft fur.
Burying my nose against the top of its head, right between the cute little ears, I swear I can detect Roan’s scent lingering on it. My nipples bead instantly, and I jerk my head up, mortified at my body’s reaction. Fuck.
I place the bear on the bed, arranging it so it’s lying down like it’s sleeping, then climb in next to it. For long moments I just stare at it, my mind spinning. I’ve never received a bearbefore in my entire life. Hell, I’ve never received any kind of gift from a man before, period. I’m not sure what to do with it or how I’m supposed to feel about this gesture.
And for reasons I don’t dare examine, as I run my hand through the teddy’s fur, I find myself imagining it’s him I’m touching. His hair, his skin, his?—
