She pulls away from my touch. Trying to yank her arm from my grip, she turns and twists her body, while her eyes remain tightly shut.
Memories of my sister invade my mind. Laura would look just like that when she had a bad dream. I shake the thought away and snap back into reality.
“Aurora!” I lean over her and grab her other arm to keep her pinned to the mattress. “Wake up!” I yell at her pain-stricken face.
Her eyes finally open, and for a moment, I can see everything. Her agony, the loneliness, and fear. It’s all in her gaze. Sleep has lowered her walls, leaving her vulnerable likenever before. Fuck, she is so fragile right now… fragile enough to break with ease. For some reason that bothers me when I should feel happy about my power over her.
Aurora’s chest is heaving as she tries to catch her breath and make sense of what is happening. Looking around frantically, she blinks a few times, slowly regaining control of her emotions. Her mouth opens like she is about to say something, but her bottom lip quivers so bad, she decides against talking.
For a few moments, we just remain like this. Me hovering over her, pinning her down until her breathing returns to normal and the panic in her wide eyes diminishes.
Peeling my fingers away from her arms, I sit up straight and watch Aurora relax a little more. She still looks shaken up, but she isn’t in full-blown panic mode either.
“Do you want to talk about your dream?” I offer, not sure if I even want to know about it.
She shakes her head right away, and I decide not to push the subject further. At least for now.
“I need to use the bathroom,” she whispers, her voice raspy from screaming.
“Okay,” I agree, before getting up to get the key from the dresser.
By the time I stand by the foot of the bed, Aurora is sitting up, her hand clutching the blanket to her chest.
I push the comforter off her legs and unlock the shackles. As soon as her skin beneath comes into view, guilt forms in my gut. She must have pulled on the restraints in her sleep, because angry red marks surround her delicate ankles.
Before I have the chance to reach out and inspect her more, she pulls her feet away and climbs out of bed. I watch her scurry away into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, running my fingers through my hair in frustration. I don’t even know why I feel that way. So what if she has nightmares? And who cares if her skin is raw?
Apparently, you, dumbass.
A few minutes pass, and I remain standing next to the bed, not sure what to do right now. When the door opens, and Aurora steps back into the bedroom, she seems to have recovered from her dream. Her hair is combed, her gaze sharp, and her movements more controlled.
She closes the distance between us, ready to slip back into bed.
“Do you want to get some tea?” I ask before I can think better of it. “You don’t look like you’re going back to sleep any time soon.”
Pausing, she scans my face like she is wondering if I’m joking. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, come on.” I turn away and head toward the door.
“Shouldn’t we put some clothes on?” she asks, making me come to a sudden stop.
I look at her over my shoulder. She is wearing silky pajama shorts, and a top that covers everything, but of course, she isn’t wearing a bra, which means I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin material. I’m only wearing a pair of boxers. If Maggie was here, I would agree to put some clothes on.
“No one else is here right now,” I explain. “Not at this time.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I shouldn’t let her know about the lack of security at night.
She nods but waits for me to move before moving herself. I unlock the door and lead us into the hallway. Aurora falls into step next to me as we walk into the dimly lit kitchen.
“Sit,” I order, pointing to one of the barstools in front of the island.
Without complaint, she takes the seat. I flip on the main light, brightening the space to the point of having to squint my eyes for a few seconds. Once my vision readjusts, I get the kettle out, fill it with water, and place it on the stove.
“Do you like honey in your tea?” I ask, as I turn the plate on high.
“Yes, please,” she tells me while I get two cups, chamomile tea and a jar of honey out of the cabinet. “I didn’t peg you as a tea drinker.”
“I’m not. I hate the taste of tea,” I admit, unwrapping the tea bags, placing them in the cups, and adding a spoon of honey to each, like I’ve done so many times before. It’s almost like a ritual at this point.
