I prop my sweaty back against the headboard and try to center myself. Try to find my calm, dig down deep and do some damn yoga breathing, but as soon as my eyes slam shut, I’m right backthere.
The images fill the backs of my eyes even though I’m awake. I ball my hands up and force them into my eye sockets as though I can drill the images away. My heart races faster than I even knew was possible. I drop my hands and a minute passes. Then another. My breaths punch out of my lungs in a ragged parody of a symphony. Sweat pours down my temples and my eyes burn. All this time, I was something to Esme and I was something to myself, and it’s all wasted. Just one fucking day, and it all could have been too late.
Those disgusting images play out in my head again. I’ve never had a dream change like that before. It doesn’t matter that they’re not real. It was all so vivid. A sound escapes me that no human should ever make, something half animal. Acid crawls up my throat. My stomach twists and I have just enough time to throw myself off the bed and stumble to the ensuite bathroom.
I throw myself down onto the slate tile floor as everything I had for that late dinner comes up. I cough and gag, eyes streaming water, snot running down my face, as my stomach clenches in painful spasms, and still the gruesome parade of images won’tfuckoff.
“Wizard?” The light clicks on. “Oh my god, are you sick?”
Fuck. How pathetic and disgusting is this?
I make a sound that’s half moan, half keen, and entirely a plea to just leave me to this, but Esme isn’t going to do that.
She kneels down right beside me. I try to heave a breath past the nausea. It doesn’t help. I get my head over the bowl for another round of retching. I keep going until there’s nothing but strings of saliva and twisting pain. The only thing that makes it even remotely better is Esme beside me. I want her to go. I want her to stay. I want her to be real and that dream to have been just a dream, not poison spreading through me.
She rubs gentle circles on my back and shoulders. So careful. I want more. I want to collapse back into her touch. I want to cry and beg and whimper for it. I want to tell her that I’ve longed for her to touch me in any fucking way, and that I don’t care how pathetic it sounds, or how ridiculous I am.
She knows that already, dumbass.
She flushes for me and steadies me when I lean back. Her eyes are massive, wide and dark and deep pools of emotion I can’t pick apart. I stare back at her like I’ve always wanted to. Like she’s half my soul. Half of the same spirit. I want to give her the tools to dismantle me and put me back together. I want to be owned by her. I want tobehers.
I brush a shaking hand over my mouth. Wordlessly, Esme stands. She finds a washcloth in the cupboard by the sink, wets it, and drops back down. She dabs at my forehead, then my cheeks.
“Let me get you some water, okay?”
I keep my eyes wide open.Real. This is real. You’re here. Esme is fine. She came to you for help. She trusted you. You fixed this for her. It’s all fine. That wasn’t real. None of it.
Her feet swim into view. There’s something wrong with my eyes. My breath. My whole body. I feel like a ghost, likeI could blow away. I’m shaking, rattling apart down to my bones. She sinks down beside me and gives me the water.
I chug it all until it’s finished, then shove off the floor and turn to find my toothbrush. I scrub my teeth for an extra-long time, trying not to look at myself in the mirror. I’m afraid of how crazed I’ll look.
Esme stands. I see her reflection shimmering behind me. She rests her hand on my hip. Her touch scorches through my soaked t-shirt. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m standing here in damp clothing and that it’s all sweat slicked to my body. T-shirt. Boxers. Hardly a shield of any sort.
She keeps her hand on my hip like I need an anchor while I’m attacking my teeth as though they’ve personally offended me in every way possible. She’s an inferno next to me, all heat and fresh air, campfire smoke, and jasmine. So beautiful. So close. She eventually crowds in, until her hip touches mine and her hand moves to the small of my back. Her touch is the only thing keeping me upright.
I hate the way her fingers tremble.
Even with a fresh mouth when I’m done, I don’t feel anything close to human. I keep my head bowed. Her hand keeps making those perfect little circles, but then it branches out, her fingers tracing shapes into my spine. Does she even know she’s doing it? My sweat is freezing cold and goosebumps break out all over my bare arms and legs.
“Hey.” She angles in and drops her hand so she can use it to tilt my face up. Her eyes are wide and worried, and a little bleary because it’s the middle of the night. “Are you okay?”
I don’t know how to answer that? Honestly? Or try to offer reassurances and choke on my own lies? Anything I say will be off right now, my voice as fractured as my insides.
“I think you should have a hot bath. That’s my favorite thing when I’m sick, or tired, or really upset. Maybe… you can tell me what’s happening after you’ve had a minute?”
She knows. She knows that this isn’t some virus or stomach upset or something that I ate. I slam one hand down on the counter so I don’t fall over. I finally look up and catch sight of myself in the mirror. I’m a mess. Hair soaked and wild, eyes wide but hollowed out, dark smudges below as deep as craters. I look haunted and half animal, even to myself.
No wonder Esme doesn’t want to leave me alone.
She stands right by my side, crowding into me, real and solid. She opens her arms. I turn and fall into them, even though I know that I shouldn’t. This is something one friend does for another. Anyone with half a heart would offer this. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just comfort, and we’re old friends.
I rest my head on her shoulder, even though it means putting it at an awkward angle to get it there with our height difference. I turn my face into her neck, nuzzling into that mix of scents and drinking her in. She’s a little bit sleepy up close, like soft breaths and salty sweat andEsme.
After a moment of holding me motionless, letting me support myself on her, she guides me across the bathroom, taking small steps. I come with her, half wraith, half a shell of myself.
It’s a glorious bathtub, freestanding and deep with claw feet. I can’t remember if it was Lark or Ella who picked it out, but they did a good job. Everyone did. They turned this place into a time of nightmares that Tyrant was forced to endure, into something that holds only good memories of our club. Family. Children. Laughter. Friendship. Brotherhood. Escape.
I built that fire for Esme when we got here. Made her hotdogs we roasted on wiener forks over the coals. We sat on patio chairs and watched the flickering flames. The stars looked down on us. We saidnothing. And then… it was late, and we had to go to bed.
