I can’t.
I inhale slowly, forcing myself to focus on the present, on what I need to do next.
Get up.
Get dressed.
Find my phone.
Call Maddy.
Take the damn money.
Go home.
Figure out how to face the rest of my life.
Behind me, Nico makes a low sound in this throat.
A grunt, rough and sleepy, as if the noise comes from somewhere deep in his chest.
Then warm breath puffs against the back of my neck, and I go still, every muscle locking.
His voice follows, muffled with sleep and irritation, right against my skin.
“Think quieter, will you,” he grumbles.
Heat blooms across my cheeks, fast and humiliating, and I stare at the curtain like it’s going to rescue me. His arm stays wrapped around my waist, and the worst part is that my body registers it in two places at once—panic in my chest and a traitorous, warm curl low in my stomach that makes me feel even sicker.
“I—” My voice comes out as a rasp.
“You’re projecting your panic, Erica,” he says.
I clear my throat and try again, quieter.
“I’m sorry.” The apology is automatic; the same one I say at work when I accidentally bump his desk or ask a question twice. It feels wrong here. Everything feels wrong here. I swallow and force myself to add, “I need to go.” The words shake anyway, even when I try to make them sound like a simple fact.
Behind me, he shifts, the mattress dipping. His hand slides more securely around me. “You’re not going anywhere yet. Look at me,” he says, still rough with sleep, but there’s already that familiar control under it—the tone that doesn’t ask but demands.
My throat tightens. I hesitate one heartbeat too long, then turn my head just enough to see him.
He’s awake. One eye open, dark hair a mess against the pillow, his face unsoftened by sleep the way I’d expect. Even like this, he looks carved from stone—sharp lines, heavy lids, a surprisingly lush mouth that rarely smiles. His gaze tracks over my face, then down, then back up again, and I feel exposed even under the sheets.
“You’re spiraling,” he says simply. His thumb strokes once, slow, over my stomach. “Stop.”
I flinch, more at the softness of the touch than the command. “My dad,” I blurt, because it’s the only thing that matters enough to cut through this. “I need to check on my dad. I have to call Maddy. I—”
My breath catches, and I blink hard, trying to hold myself together. “I can’t be here. Not right now.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it.
I hate that he can hear it. I hate that he’ll know exactly how close I am to falling apart.
His eyes narrow, but not in anger this time—something sharper, assessing. “Your phone,” he says, and it’s not a question. “Where is it?”
“They took it,” I say quietly, cheeks burning at how stupid I was last night. Did I really think I was going to be safe? That these people would care what happened to me?
They took my phone and locked me in a room to wait for a man to come and do whatever he wanted to me.
Nico’s arm tightens once, not to trap me—more like a reflex—then he releases me and pushes up on an elbow. The temperature in the space behind me drops, the warmth replaced by cool air.
