There’s no movement or noise or response, and I can’t tell from over here if he’s asleep or not. I turn around and close the door behind me, making sure it’s as quiet as possible. Then I cross the room slowly, stepping over his shoes and socks, and I lower myself to the bed.
The second the bed creaks, Nico flinches, and he turns over and hastily pushes himself back against the wall, his eyes wide.
He looks . . . terrified.
Of me.
That’s not something I’ve seen in a very, very long time. I’m usually theoneperson he’s not terrified of. I’m usually the only person he seems to be able to even tolerate being close to him. I fight the urge to back off and give him space, because I’m not sure that’s what he needs right now.
Not that I know what he needs.
“Hey,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice level, even as my heart breaks. I don’t know what else to say or do or how to act or what to think. So I just shift a little, slowly, and ask, “Would it be okay if I lie down with you?”
His eyes close, but the tension doesn’t leave him. “Yeah.”
I blow out a quiet breath and nod, even though he can’t see me. Then, moving carefully, I take my phone, wallet, and keys out of my pocket, set them on the nightstand, and turn to crawl under the covers with him. Maybe I should take a few minutes and get ready for bed, but honestly, I don’t want to leave him right now. Not before I know what’s going on.
He turns back onto his other side, facing away from me, but there’s still so much tension in him I can feel it, sharp in the air between us. Then he inches away even more until he’s scrunched up against the wall, like he really doesn’t want me here.
I lie there and watch the blanket shift slightly with each of his stilted breaths, and it’s several minutes before I work up the courage to scoot closer.
He flinches again as soon as I move.
And god, that makes my heart hurt even more. I freeze and close my eyes. “I can leave... go to the downstairs room... if you need me to.”
“No.”
Desperation. That’s what I hear in his single-word answer. Desperation and panic. I don’t even want to think about what it all means.
I swallow tightly and nod. “Okay. I’ll stay. I’ll stay.”
“Thank you,” he says on a breath.
But he makes no move to scoot closer, no request for me to hold him. He gives no reassurance that he’s okay or that he’ll be okay.
So I just lie there on my back, staring up at the ceiling, not daring to make any other moves myself. Instead, I listen quietlyas his breathing first slows and then becomes steadier, and finally, by the time the sun is down outside and the bedroom is dark with night, he starts snoring softly.
I close my eyes and will my heart to stop aching long enough for me to fall asleep as well.
Chapter Thirty-One
Nico
Thenightmarescomeandgo. Darkness pulling at me. Memories roaring to life in my head. For hours, I’m tugged in and out of sleep, fear waking me and exhaustion drowning me again, sending me back into my mind, where nothing is safe or soft or quiet.
I want to go to him. I want to wake him up, beg him to hold me. But then the fear comes back, and I know I need to keep that space between us, minimal as it is.
I fucking hurt, too. My chest is sore right in the middle, where that asshole shoved me, and my back aches where I hit the wall. When I move my shoulder wrong, or actually, when I move it at all, jolts of deep pain shoot down into my fingers and up into my neck.
And I really don’t want Alex to know about any of that.
So I try to deal with my shit alone, lying as still as I can, huddled up at the edge of the bed. Holding in the cries that want to rip from my throat every time I yank myself out of a dream where Patrick has me pinned against the wall, about to hit me again.
At one point, I hear noises downstairs—quiet voices, a door shutting, then footsteps up the stairs and heading off down the hallway. Alex’s mom is home. Then Alex’s phone vibrates with a series of what are probably text messages.
He doesn’t wake up next to me, and shortly after that, I’m pulled back in, deeper this time. A dark room. Glass shatters next to me. Mom’s there, hanging off of Patrick, and they’re sharing a cigarette. Then she’s in my face, blowing hot, rotten smoke at me.
“It’s twelve hundred. Where’s my money?” she hisses, her eyes turning red with fury.
