Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I dropped to my knees beside her. “Shhh,” I whispered, brushing damp hair off her forehead.
Her soft skin was slick. Horrified and clammy. She flinched when I touched her—but then melted into it. A soft sigh. A dying whimper. Like my touch slayed her tears.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Go back to bed, Lach.
But my legs ignored me.
I did what my instincts screamed. I slipped behind her, slow and careful, and settled onto the couch. I’d stay. Lay next to her for a few minutes. No touching. Just present. I’d show her I would not leave, regardless of the money and sponsors.
As if Natasha recognized me, even asleep, she scooted closer. Tucked herself into my chest, and my arms slid around her.
Protect this woman. Never let her go. Stay. Always.
I’d never killed anyone. Prayed I never had to.
But I’d defend Natasha, no question. I’d become whatever the nightmare feared. Slay her dragons. Wait in her tower. Wait out the dark until the demons lost their grip.
Okay, yeah. I’d read too many princess books to my niece Carly. Of all of Camdyn’s wild weans, Carly had a softer side. To get to it?
Princess fairytale books.
But whatever. Natasha had dragons? I’d be her knight.
“I’m here, Tash,” I whispered, shifting my hips back. Yeah, the temptation was there. I was a man. And she was my dream woman. But tonight wasn’t focused on my unavoidable suffering. Tonight was about embracing her through the dark. About staying when it mattered most.
As she relaxed, my heartbeat slowed in time with hers. Just a few minutes, Lach.
Those minutes turned to hours. Those hours brought daylight. Sunlight illuminated the space, and I awoke in the middle of a chick fight. Flailing mess of limbs, arm swinging, nails clawing, like she was fighting off hell itself. An elbow slammed me under my rib.
I gasped, blinking. “Natasha … Natas—”
14
NATASHA
Sleep paralysis.
Pure evil dropped onto my chest. The devil himself came to steal the breath from my lungs. Helpless. Frozen. Screaming inside while my body refused to move. Usually, after a time, my brain worked in overdrive to startle me into movement. The veil, a fog so deep, would lift. I’d jerk awake. Bite down on my tongue hard enough to stop the scream pressing up my throat. A scream I never let loose. Because crying out meant explaining. And if I explained, my parents’ pity would return.
So, I always remained quiet.
The episodes began after my twenty-first birthday.
After him.
After a stranger stole a treasure no longer mine to offer in love.
Following that night, the Russian kept coming. In my nightmares, he claimed what wasn’t his. Over and over again. Until sleep stopped feeling safe. But last night …
Something changed. I remembered the paralysis. Darkness sat on my chest, a suffocating weight. Then peace. Not forced. Not fabricated. Just … there. A warmth that wrapped around me. A heartbeat that wasn’t mine.
Still, I should’ve woken up shaken. I always did.
Instead, I stirred slowly, blinking through a blissful haze.
This wasn’t my bedroom.
My heart jerked.
The walls were masculine. Not mine. The ceiling? Unfamiliar. And beneath the linen-scented comforter, someone dozed. Behind me.
Every inch of him hardened muscle and heat.
My stomach dropped, the calm replaced by swooshing breaths.
No. No. NO!
I dug my fingers into the cushions to anchor myself. Didn’t work.
The claws came out. Scratching. My elbow shot back, wild and fast.
A startled grunt met my ears.
Powerful hands caught mine—gentle, not forceful.
“Natasha—Tasha—it’s me. It’s me.”
That voice.
Lachlan.
In my mind, the puzzle of how perfectly we fit together clicked into place.
The couch. The laughter. Talking about Momma, Pop, the inflatable punching bag. Falling asleep in his arms. Lawd.
I shot into a seated position, shoulders collapsed, face burning as my chest rose and fell in jagged bursts. The nightmare clung to me like a second skin. But this was real too. He was real.
“I’m sorry,” I choked. “Didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t be sorry.” Lachlan settled beside me without closing the distance. “You were scared. Crying out.”
“Yeah.” I wrapped my arms around my knees.
Concern carved his handsome face. He examined me like he anticipated something beyond my single-word answer.
I bit my bottom lip to stop from apologizing again. And to kill this conversation.
“Tash, baby, you know I know you have family secrets. I respect that. You shared your fight with leukemia in your own time. So, I … hope you’ll tell me about this too. When you’re ready.”
Never. I refused to tell anyone. Not my therapist. Not my parents. No one. This nightmare lived inside of me. But Lach never rushed. He never pressed, even when his momma showed those blackmail photos of him as a child. Nan was wrong for that. But she was open, approachable. So much different from the usual portrayal of a syndicate’s matriarch. Dang, those stereotypes. Hopefully, I disproved comparable falsehoods about Pop and Uncle Sim last night.