Chapter 14
Ash
The dream is always the same.
Sand and heat and the roar of an engine.
The convoy moving through the valley, dust clouds rising behind us.
Brennan in the passenger seat, laughing about something—I can never remember what, just that he was laughing.
His head thrown back, that sound I'd know anywhere, the one that made me fall for him in the first place.
I see him ahead, see him laughing. Never close enough.
The road ahead, shimmering in the desert sun. Mountains in the distance that never seem to get closer.
Then the flash. The sound that isn't a sound, just pressure and light and the world turning inside out. The vehicle lifting, spinning, everything happening too fast and too slow at the same time.
I'm digging through rubble. My hands are bleeding but I can't stop because he's under there somewhere, he has to be under there, I just have to find him. Someone's screaming and it might be me. Metal and stone and the smell of burning and I can't find him, I can't—
I wake up swinging.
Or I try to. Something heavy is pinning me down, warm and solid across my torso. My fist connects with something that isn't pillow or mattress—something furred and alive.
I freeze.
In the dim light from the window, I can see it. Him.
A lion is lying half on top of me, one massive paw draped across my body, his head resting on my shoulder.
Golden fur, darker mane just starting to come in around his face—not the full impressive mane of the massive lions I've seen at zoos, but something softer, younger.
Amber eyes watching me with calm concern.
Jason.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe.
He makes a low sound—not a growl, something softer. A rumble that vibrates through his whole body and into mine, resonating in my bones. His weight shifts, pressing down more firmly, and I realize what he's doing.
Pressure. Grounding. The same thing weighted blankets do for anxiety, except this is a two-hundred-pound lion who's choosing to be my weighted blanket.
My heart is still pounding, sweat cooling on my skin, but the panic is already fading. Hard to stay trapped in a nightmare when there's a giant cat pinning you to the bed, watching you with eyes that say I'm here, you're safe, I've got you.
"How long was I—" My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. "How long?"
Jason shifts, and between one breath and the next, the lion is gone and it's just him—naked, human, still half-draped across me. The transition is seamless, like watching smoke change shape.
"Maybe five minutes," he says quietly. "You were thrashing. Talking. Saying his name." He doesn't specify whose name. He doesn't have to. "I tried to wake you up but you weren't hearing me, so I just..." He shrugs. "Shifted. Seemed like you needed the weight more than the words."
"You shifted. Into a lion. In my bed."
"Yeah."
"While I was having a nightmare."
"You said you wanted to see my lion sometime." His mouth curves, just slightly. "Surprise?"
I stare at him. This man—this ridiculous, impossible man—saw me having a trauma nightmare and his first instinct was to turn into a giant predator and lie on top of me until I calmed down.
"That's the most insane thing anyone's ever done for me."
"Did it help?"
I take stock. Heart rate coming down. Hands have stopped shaking. The images from the dream are fading, replaced by the reality of Jason's warm weight and the lingering sensation of fur against my skin. The feeling of his rumble still echoing through me.
"Yeah," I admit. "It helped."
"Good." He settles more comfortably against me, head on my shoulder, arm across my stomach. Like this is normal. Like waking up under a lion is just how mornings work now. "Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
That's it. No pushing, no questions, no concerned looks that demand explanation. Just okay, and the steady rhythm of his breathing against my ribs.
"It was Brennan," I say, because apparently I'm talking about it anyway. "The IED. I was there when it happened. In the vehicle behind his. I saw—" I stop. "Sometimes I dream about it."
Jason's hand finds mine, threads our fingers together. "How often?"
"Used to be every night. Now it's maybe once a week. Sometimes less."
"What usually helps?"
"Nothing. I just wait it out. Go for a run if it's bad enough. Exhaust myself until I can sleep without dreaming."
"What about tonight?"
I think about it. The way the panic dissolved the moment I registered the weight on top of me. The way his rumble—his purr, I guess, do lions purr?—vibrated through me like a reset button.
"Tonight a lion sat on me," I say. "That was new."
"I can do that again. If you want. When it happens."
"You're offering to shift into a two-hundred-pound predator and pin me to the bed whenever I have a nightmare."
"Yes."
"Jason."
"What?" He props himself up on one elbow to look at me, and his expression is completely serious. "You said it helped. I can help. That's what I do."
"That's what you do."
"Take care of people. Take care of you." He leans down and kisses me, soft and brief. "Let me."
A door I didn't know was sealed swings open somewhere inside me.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Okay."
He settles back down against me, and I wrap my arm around him, pulling him closer. The room is quiet except for our breathing and the distant sound of wind outside.
"Your lion is beautiful," I say after a while.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Smaller than I expected, though."
He pinches my side, hard enough to sting. "I told you I was on the smaller side."
"You're still bigger than a German Shepherd. That's not small."
"Compared to Knox, I'm a kitten."
"Knox is a freak of nature."
"True." He yawns against my shoulder. "Go back to sleep. I'll be here."
"What if I have another nightmare?"
"Then you'll wake up under a lion again." He presses a kiss to my collarbone. "I've got you."
I've got you.
Three words. Simple. But no one's said them to me and meant it in a very long time. I've always been the one who's got everyone else. The protector. The provider. The one who handles things so other people don't have to.
And now there's a golden lion boy in my bed who shifts into a predator to calm me down and says I've got you like it's the easiest thing in the world.
"Jason."
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not making it weird. For not asking questions. For just..." I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"For being here?"
"Yeah. For being here."
He squeezes my hand. "Nowhere else I'd rather be."
I shift, rolling him onto his back, and he goes easily, looking up at me with soft eyes and a question on his face.
"Ash?"
I don't answer. Just lower my head to his neck, to the spot where it meets his shoulder, and press my lips there. He shivers.
"Can I?" I ask against his skin.
"Can you what?"
"Mark you. Properly."
His breath catches. "You mean—"
"I mean I want to bite you. Right here." I scrape my teeth lightly over the spot, feeling his pulse jump under my mouth. "So everyone knows you're mine. So you know you're mine. Is that—do shifters—"
"Yes." The word comes out rough, almost desperate. "God, yes. Ash, please."
I bite down.
Not gentle. Not tentative. I bite him hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark, hard enough that he'll carry this for the rest of his life.
He arches up against me with a sound that's almost a sob, his hands grabbing at my back, pulling me closer.
I hold the bite until I taste copper, until I know it's going to scar.
When I pull back, the mark is already darkening on his skin. My mark. My claim. My teeth in his flesh, my ownership written on his body where everyone can see.
"Mine," I say.
"Yours." His eyes are wet, his voice wrecked. "Always yours."
I kiss the bite, gentle now, soothing. "Did I hurt you?"
"Yes." He's smiling, though. Glowing. "It was perfect."
I settle back down beside him, pulling him against me, and he tucks his face into my neck like he's trying to crawl inside me.
"That's permanent," he says quietly. "For shifters. A bite like that, it's... it means something."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you can't take it back. Even if we—even if this doesn't—"
"Jason." I tip his chin up so he has to look at me. "I'm not taking it back. I don't want to take it back. You're mine. That's not changing."
He stares at me for a long moment, searching my face. Whatever he finds there makes him relax, melting against me like he's finally letting himself believe it.
"Okay," he whispers. "Okay."
He settles against me, and I wait for sleep to come.
It doesn't.
My brain won't stop running scenarios. Jason at the bar—what if someone starts trouble? Jason on his bike—what if a truck doesn't see him?
I've been doing this since I was a teen and our dad had just checked out, and suddenly I was the one who needed to know where Robin was at all times.
The military didn't create this. It just gave me better tools.
And then Brennan happened, and every worst-case scenario I'd ever imagined became real.
Now I've got Jason, and I've just marked him as mine, and my brain is screaming that I have something precious I could lose.
"What's going on? You're not sleeping," Jason murmurs against my neck.
"Sorry. Just thinking."
"About what?"
I should let it go. Should wait until morning, have the conversation when I'm not raw from a nightmare and the taste of his blood is still on my tongue. But I won't sleep until I ask.
"I track Robin's phone," I say. "Have for years. He knows about it. Set it up after I deployed because I couldn't—I needed to know he was okay. And when I got back, I couldn't turn it off."
Jason shifts, propping himself up to look at me. Waiting.
"I want to track yours too."
He doesn't react the way I expect—no flinch, no pulled-back expression. Just studies me in the dim light.
"Because of Brennan?"
"Partly. But I was like this before him. He just made it worse." I scrape a hand over my face. "My brain runs threat scenarios constantly. The only thing that quiets it is knowing where my people are. If I can check that you're at the bar, at the library—I can breathe."
"So it's not about trust."
"No."
"It's about your brain not being able to rest unless it knows I'm safe."
"Yes."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Okay."
I blink. "Just like that?"
"Ash, I've watched you scan every room we walk into. Catalog the exits. Position yourself between me and the door." His hand finds my stomach, presses flat. "That's just how you're wired. I'm not going to pretend I want someone different."
"Most people would think it's controlling."
"Most people don't know the difference between care and control." He shifts closer. "Control is stopping someone from going places. Care is wanting to know they got there safe. You've never once tried to tell me what to do. You just want to know I'm okay."
My throat goes tight.
"Track my phone," he says. "Check on me whenever you need to. But if it ever crosses a line—if you ever use it to check up on who I'm with because you don't trust me—I'll call you on it. And you have to actually hear me."
"Fair."
"And you have to talk to someone. About Brennan. About the nightmares. A professional."
"Jason—"
"That's my condition." His eyes hold mine. "You take care of everyone else. Let someone help you take care of yourself."
I want to argue. Tell him I'm handling it. But I'm lying awake at 4 AM asking my boyfriend to let me track his phone, so clearly I'm not handling anything.
"Deal," I say.
It takes five minutes to set up the app, to add him to the same group as Robin. When it's done, I can see the little dot on my screen that shows he's right here, right next to me, exactly where he should be.
I finally exhale.
"Better?" Jason asks.
"Yeah. Better."
"Good." He settles back against me. "Now stop thinking and go to sleep. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
It takes a while. But eventually my brain quiets, and I fall asleep with his weight against my side, his heartbeat steady against my ribs, my mark on his neck, and a little blue dot on my phone that says he's exactly where he's supposed to be.
For the first time in two years, the dreams don't come back.