Chapter 18
Josephine
The Nest. He said he’d be in the Nest.
My heart hammers a frantic rhythm as I take the deck stairs two at a time.
I tear into the house, out of breath already. I still have so far to go.
Horns blast in the distance, drawing my attention, and I peek over my shoulder as the last ferry pulls away.
My eyes water and my mouth goes dry. The sinking sensation of hopelessness—the sadness of some sort of goodbye—slams into me with an intensity I don’t have time to examine.
Lightning strikes. Thunder booms. The storm raging in my mind threatens to take me down if I don’t get the fuck away from these floor-to-ceiling windows.
I push through the thinned-out crowd in the living room with the singular goal of getting to the staircase. I’m half jogging through the house, my hurried pace and frantic drive matching the energy of the room.
When I finally get to the stairs, I gasp.
The two henchmen Decker employs to keep everyone contained block my path.
“I—I need to get up there,” I try, breathless.
Neither man moves. Neither so much as blinks. I open my mouth, ready to repeat myself, desperate to gain entry, when a hand brushes against my low back, making me practically jump out of my own skin.
“Locke!”
“Hey. I was looking for you. I was hoping—”
“I-I need to get upstairs,” I stammer.
He assesses me for a beat before nodding slowly. “Are you okay?”
Thunder crashes so loudly the windows closest to us rattle.
“The storm. The Nest. Kylian said to come to the Nest.”
“Joey—”
“Locke. Please,” I beg, my voice trembling. I’m on the verge of losing my shit. “Can you make them let me up?”
He frowns, and concern swirls in his dark eyes. I’m getting pretty damn tired of people looking at me like that tonight.
“Let her up,” he demands, looking from Thing One to Thing Two with a pointed stare.
Finally, the beefier of the two responds.
“Is she on the list?” he huffs, lifting an iPad.
“She is. Which you would know if you had been doing your job.” Locke reaches past me and unclips one side of the stanchion.
“Go on,” he whispers into my ear.
I swallow past the overwhelm clogging my throat and give him a terse nod. One foot in front of the other. One step after another.
Sucking in deep, ragged breaths, I focus on the stairs. My knees wobble, and my chest burns, but I don’t stop. I finally glance up when I reach the top of the steps, only to be greeted by the judgmental gaze of a girl my age who’s adjusting her dress in the hallway a few feet away from my room.
She watches me with raised eyebrows while I dip my chin to avoid her scrutiny.
I bypass my door. It’s not really mine anyway, and I sure as hell don’t want this stranger to see me ducking in there, or worse, following me. I brush past the rooms that belong to Locke and Kendrick. Kylian said it was at the end of the hall. I just have to figure out…
“Wow,” she clips out dramatically. “He said he was going to bed. Tell him that next time, he should space out his sloppy seconds.”
She quirks an eyebrow and hits me with her best mean-girl glare. She must have been coming from Kylian’s room. The Nest.
And now I realize her comment was meant to insult me.
Frenetic energy and sheer exhaustion wage war in my mind, leaving me unable to muster a reply. Not that I’d be interested, regardless. The pressure behind my eyes that originally felt like tears is quickly morphing into the metronomic pounding of a migraine.
The signs are all there. I’m shutting down. I know what could happen next.
I have to find the Nest.
Seemingly of its own volition, my hand reaches out and turns a knob. I’m numb to the sensation of the handle in my grip. It takes an enormous amount of effort to open the door, then even more mental and physical strength to put one foot in front of the other and start yet another ascent.
The staircase is narrow: a sliver of space compared to the wide main stairway I just climbed. I’m grateful for the handrail I’m clinging to for dear life and the way it holds steady as I force out monumental effort to keep going.
There are no windows or other clues to the storm raging outside. Just the storm in here. I am the storm.
Up, up, up. I continue to climb.
I’m panting. From fear or exertion, I don’t know.
So many fucking stairs.
Desperate for even the slightest hold on reality, I count each step. Each breath. Each moment that I’m still present and alive.
When I finally, mercifully, reach the top, I’m met with another door. Do I knock? Send a text? Am I even in the right place?
I’m hovering, hand on the knob, sucking in oxygen through a narrowed airway, seeking to calm the erratic pulse thrumming through me from head to toe.
The doorknob moves, slipping out of my hand. Pressing my forehead into the solid wood, I suck in another shuddered breath, desperate to get myself under control.
I am here. This is now.
Over and over, I repeat the mantra in my head. Until it stops feeling comforting. Then I repeat it out loud.
“I am here. This is now.”
Squeezing my eyes closed, I focus on the smooth door handle again. Then suddenly, it twists, and the surface I’m leaning against disappears.
“Jo?”
My head snaps up, and I search his face, silently pleading for salvation.
“Jo? What’s wrong?”
I use the last bits of strength I possess to heave my body forward, stumbling over the final stair and practically throwing myself at Kylian.
“Whoa—whoa.”
He catches me, then extends his arms awkwardly, maintaining space between us.
“Are you okay?”
All I can do is shake my head. No words come out as I open my mouth in a pathetic attempt to make him understand.
“Come sit.”
He uses his grip on my shoulders to guide me toward the edge of the bed. Once seated, I take in what I can see of the small, dark space. There are no windows. No natural light. Red, blue, and purple LED track lights line the walls, emitting a colorful glow.
I take a deep breath—the deepest I’ve accomplished in several minutes—and relish in the hint of calm that flows through me with the oxygen. Eventually, I look up and meet his gaze.
As soon as we lock eyes, a boom of thunder shakes the damn house. I yelp and jump to my feet.
“Fuck. Sorry, sorry,” I mumble, trying to catch my erratic breath as I pace in front of his bed.
“I’m texting Locke—”
“No!”
The thought of him—or anyone else—seeing me like this is too much to handle. With Kylian, though, I feel safe. I don’t know why it doesn’t bother me to be in the midst of a panic attack in front of him, but I get the sense that he won’t judge me. Like I might be okay.
“Please. No.” The request is weaker the second time, but it’s enough to make him stash his phone in his pocket.
“I hate storms,” I confess, wrapping my arms around my front as if that will protect me from the next rumble of thunder.
It’s not until I’m hugging myself that I realize I’m shaking. Frustratingly, the awareness of my own trembling only makes it worse.
I’m so wrapped up in my own head that I don’t realize Kylian’s come closer until his fingers find my chin and lift it. The contact startles me so badly I let out a pathetic whimper.
“Here,” he says, a breath away. He removes something from his ears—earplugs, perhaps? And slowly lifts his hands so I can follow his movement as he inches even closer and gently pushes against each of my ears.
The sounds around me muffle in an instant. I hiccup a breath as I search his face. The sharp angle of his jaw and the rims of his glasses glow red from the LEDs.
“Sensory earplugs,” he explains, his voice faraway and dreamlike, even though he’s just inches from my face.
“Lie down,” he encourages, nodding toward his bed.
My heart rate ratchets up again, and my lungs threaten to close off. But Kylian holds both hands up and takes a step back.
“Jo… you’re safe. Please lie down.”
Safe.
Safe, and so fucking tired.
I don’t give myself time to overthink. I just do as he says.
As soon as I’m flat on my back, he drapes something warm and heavy over my body. The weight of it presses into all my limbs and eases the tightness in my chest, stripping away a layer of anxiety.
Fuck. Okay. I’m all right.
I am here. This is now.
I am here. I’m safe.
Though I can feel the intensity of Kylian’s focus on me, I don’t dare look at him. I focus on the ceiling instead—on the track lighting—on the individual points of light that connect and blur together when I squint.
The windowless space is small and perfectly square. It’s just big enough for the bed, a desk with multiple computer monitors set up against one wall, and several bookshelves opposite that.
In the middle of the ceiling is a square that’s lighter than the surface around it.
It isn’t a light, but rather a translucent patch that illuminates each time lightning strikes.
Watching the storm through that square is like looking at a picture through a filter.
It’s softer around the edges… subdued, somehow.
A few more minutes pass before my breathing is completely under control. I really do feel safe, even if I’m lying in bed beside a man I barely know.
Eventually, I turn my head and pop out one of the earplugs.
“I’m sorry, Kylian. But thank you.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he murmurs, lifting a hand as if he’s going to touch me.
I follow the movement with my eyes, and he freezes. Changing course, he runs the hand through his hair, mussing it up and making it stand on end.
“You’re scared of storms,” he states matter-of-factly.
“Fucking terrified,” I admit, just above a whisper.
Nodding, he pulls out his phone again.
“Damn. This one’s just getting started.”
He flashes the screen toward me. The sight of all the green and orange sends my anxiety through the roof again, so I hold one hand in front of my face, shielding my eyes from the weather radar.
Kylian lowers the phone immediately, understanding my silent signal.
I peek over and search his face. Gulping past the fear of rejection, I ask, “Can I stay here with you tonight?”
His eyes narrow behind the lenses of his glasses. He inspects me for several seconds, then takes in the room.
Sighing, he nods. “Yeah, Jo. You can stay up here with me. Will you be able to sleep?”
“I think so.”
He stands and locks the bedroom door, then takes off his glasses and sets them on the nightstand.
He shakes some pills out of a bottle, pops them into his mouth, and swallows them dry.
Then, wordlessly, he pulls off his shirt with one hand, tosses it across the room, and lies flat on his back beside me.
I put the loose earplug back in place, instantly soothed by the way it dulls the ambient sound of the room and the near-constant rumble of thunder.
Gravity and the weighted blanket press me into the mattress, settling me further.
Pulling in a breath far more easily than I have since that first drop of rain, I turn on my back so Kylian doesn’t think I’m some sort of creeper staring at him in the dark.
Exhaustion overwhelms me. Sleep threatens to consume me. I take in another long, calming breath and blow it out over several seconds as my body finally gives up the fight.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the LED lights overhead as I fall asleep.