Dying. I’m dying.
I thrashed, every muscle screaming, but I couldn’t break free. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even sob.
His mouth brushed my ear again, intimate and monstrous. “Found you.”
My lungs finally gave up.
The scream tore out of me so violently that it ripped the dream to shreds. “HE’S HERE—HE’S HERE—HE’S HERE!”
I bolted upright in bed, hands clawing at my mouth, nails scraping my own skin. Sweat soaked my tank top. My hair stuck to my neck. The air was too thin, too sharp, too real.
The cabin snapped back into existence. The quilt. The moonlight. The dark wood walls.
My heart tried to punch out of my ribs.
The door didn’t just open, it blew apart under his shoulder, crashing against the wall with a crack that shook dust from the rafters.
Liam filled the doorway like a goddamn force of nature—barefoot, shirtless, eyes wild and sharp, gun raised in perfect firing position. His chest heaved from the sprint, muscles carved tight with adrenaline and terror.
He looked like he’d come here prepared to kill.
His voice was a whip—sharp, lethal, vibrating with the kind of fear you only feel when someone you love might be dying. “Stephy!”
He scanned the room in fast, practiced sweeps—corners, windows, shadows, under the bed, behind the door. His finger hovered by the trigger, jaw clenched so hard I thought it might crack.
He didn’t see a threat.
He sawme.
A shaking, sweat-soaked, gasping mess tangled in sheets. My hands still clawing at my own face. My breath coming in broken, choking bursts.
And the shift in him was immediate.
The gun vanished behind him. He crossed the room in three long strides. He was on the bed before I could blink.
“Steph.” His voice broke. “Steph, sweetheart, I’m here.”
He gathered me against him, arms wrapping around me like a shield, like a shelter, like a man pulling someone back from the edge of a cliff.
The heat of him hit me first—burning, solid, real.
I clutched at him helplessly. My fingers dug into his bare back, trying to anchor myself, needing to feel the muscle there, the strength, theLiamof him.
“He’s here,” I sobbed into his throat. “He’s here—Liam, he was here?—”
“No,” he murmured fiercely, pulling me closer. “No, sweetheart. He’s not here. You’re safe. I swear on my life you’re safe. It was a dream. You had a nightmare.”
But my body didn’t know that. My lungs didn’t know that. My mind was still trapped between the dream and the memory, unable to escape either.
Liam’s hand slid up my spine, warm and steady, grounding me. “Breathe with me,” he said softly. “Come on, baby. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
He exaggerated his breathing—slow, deep, steady. I tried to match him, but each breath hitched, breaking on sobs I couldn’t hold back.
“You’re doing good,” he murmured. “Keep going.”
His fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my face up. His thumb wiped tears from my cheek with a tenderness that made my throat close all over again.
Finally, my lungs unclenched just enough. Air moved. Not easily, but it moved.
