Without opening my eyes, I whine in protest, earning a chuckle.
“Yeah, I knew that would be your answer.” His arms slide under my knees and back, and he carries me toward my bedroom. “You’re the most spoiled woman I know.”
“My hero,” I say in my best Olive Oyl voice, keeping my eyes closed.
I’m rewarded with a not-so-gentle toss into my bed. “Sweet dreams, moocher.”
I curl up at once into the pillows, and he flips off the light.
Blackness takes me.
I wake alone in a strange room with antique wood furnishings—a bureau, a rocking chair, a china hutch. Windows along two walls show a stormy sky, the trees bending in the wind. Rain pours like the Great Flood.
A bolt of terror locks my legs in place. Where am I?
Someone’s here. I need to get them before it’s too late. I spin around, but the room’s empty.
“Hello?” I scream.
A door across the way won’t open. I jiggle and yank on the knob, but nothing. Outside, the rain pours on, flooding the grass, creeping up the porch steps.
“Jocelyn!” screams a voice behind me.
I whirl in place. Another door has appeared. The water surges, and I’m wading through it, bumping into floating furniture. The door opens, but it’s jammed.
“Hello?” I call.
“Joss, please, help!”
My lungs seize, and my heart pounds against shards of splintered fear. I recognize that voice.
Asher.
I force my arm through the crack in the door, reaching blindly for him. Fingers graze mine, and I grasp the tips before the flood rises and sweeps him away. I scream his name.
Jerking upright, I struggle to catch my breath as the dream fades. I peer into the surrounding darkness, making out the vague shapes of the dresser and chair beside it. My heart pounds like it was real, and I shove the blankets off my sweaty limbs, waiting for the rush of cortisol to subside.
Good thing the thermostat’s so low, or I’d be drenched.
My shaky legs slide off the side of the bed before I’ve fully recovered, and I tiptoe through the hallway toward Asher’s room. I just need to verify he’s okay. Hands trembling, I open his door on soundless hinges and peek my head in. He’s in his usual position—on his side with the pillow crushed beneath his head. His brown hair is mussed, and his chest rises and falls with the slow breaths of the deeply asleep.
Something behind my ribs that was pinched tight suddenly releases. Ridiculous, really—it was only a dream, after all—but I can’t deny the relief that rushes through me at the proof he’s safe. Alive.
These nightmares are insufferable.
I step back to close the door, but those soundless hinges aren’t so silent anymore.
He sits up at the squeak. “What the—”
“Sorry!” I whisper.
He blinks in my direction, squinting, and his voice is rusty when he says, “Are you—watching me sleep?”
I swing the door open fully. “What? Of course not, weirdo. I had a nightmare. I was just checking on you.”
“Oh.” His shoulders fall. “Who was it this time?”
I hesitate, then touch my still-trembling hands to my mouth. Should I tell him the truth?
