“You’re okay,” I assure her, letting her hold on in whatever way she needs, “You’re okay, it was just a dream.”
She pulls away a little, looking around the room, into all the corners, and at the window, her eyes moving rapidly as she looks for something that isn’t there. She’s still holding on, clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping her grounded.
If she needs me to be her anchor, I will be. I’ll be whatever she asks, do whatever is needed.
“Just a dream,” She whispers, voice rough from her crying.
“That’s right,” I confirm, letting her go when she falls back onto the pillow, a tendril of damp hair falling across her face. Unable to stop myself, I reach for it, tucking it away from her face, and then let the pad of my thumb wipe away a tear from her cheek. Her neon eyes latch onto mine, lips parting. I can see her pulse hammering in her neck, her skin slick and pale. I keep my hand cupping her cheek, giving her more of me to anchor to, to keep her with me.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, “I won’t let you go.”
She nods softly, her throat bobbing as her eyes bounce between mine, glassy and full of something I want to defeat for her. The fear, the pain — it’s palpable, and all I want to do is destroy it.
“Did I wake you?” She whispers.
“No, Butterfly,” I assure her, and then let my eyes run down her to check she’s really okay. The sheets are tangled up in her legs, and where my pants are several sizes too big, they’ve twisted on her, which likely didn’t help with the nightmare. I know when I have the same, restrictions don’t help in the slightest. The t-shirt is all bunched up, showing the soft swell of her abdomen, but as I run my eyes over her skin, they snag on the puckered, scarred flesh at her hip.
The skin has been slashed in several places, leaving long, harsh lines in her flesh, one of them severs the ink swirls of her tattoo, cutting a single butterfly right in half.
Anger blasts through me, my heart stopping and restarting like a jackknife.
“Who did this to you?” There is nothing human left in my voice. “Who did this?”
The scars aren’t old, they’re still raised, angry looking, the skin red and inflamed, and you can see where she had been stitched up. There’s no pattern to the slashes, they crisscross on her skin, like someone had tried to tear her apart.
“Someone hurt you, Butterfly,” I drag my eyes from the violence etched into her skin, “Who?”
Her eyes have gone wide, her lips parted, “Dean, it’s — I — it’s nothing.”
“Nothing?”
She flinches at my tone.
“An accident.” She tries, but I sense the lies, “Just an accident.”
I laugh without humor, “Truth for a truth, pretty girl.”
She frantically shakes her head, “Dean…”
My fingers trace the scarring, feeling the raised, angry flesh, and she sucks in a breath. “I’ll kill them.” I vow quietly, “I’ll kill whoever did this to you.”
Her hand lands on top of mine, flattening my palm against her hip, but it doesn’t cover the damage to her body. This is anger, this is rage in a physical form. Someone had tried to kill her.
The nightmare.
Please, I don’t want to die.
“No one,” I growl,“No onewill ever hurt you again.”
Her fingers curl around my hand, tightening and then squeezing. “Thank you.”
My eyes bounce around her face, her skin burning against my palm.
“I’m okay now,” She assures me.
I feel my fingers flex against her as she lays back into the pillows, her hair fanning out around her head as she keeps her eyes on me.
“Lay down with me, Dean,” She whispers.
