15. A Stalker’s Nightmare
“ M omma!”
The ragged scream snaps me upright, my hand pressing against my racing heart. But other than the stove’s crackle, silence greets me inside the cabin. Outside, the storm still rages, rumbling and slapping branches against the window.
Was that what I heard?
The twigs tap their fingers in an off-beat rhythm, scratching at the glass to be let in. I shudder, pulling the blanket tighter as I scan the room—stopping at Orion slumped against the door.
His legs are stretched out, head eerily tilted toward me, as if he can see me with his eyes closed.
He clutches the blanket in his arms like a life raft, though if it were one, it would’ve popped by now from the force of his grip, his biceps bulging and tattoos rippling in the dim light.
I don’t think he’s moved since we fell asleep.
Except his fingers twitch, and his body spasms in his sleep. His chest rises and falls too quickly. Is he hyperventilating?
His lips move in fits and starts, muttering words I can’t catch. A jerk shudders through him, shoulders flexing, knees shifting like he’s fighting off a monster.
Maybe it’s Bigfoot.
I almost laugh, until a broken sound escapes him, tugging an ache from my chest.
“ Momma …”
It was him. He’s what woke me. Orion Fury is having a nightmare.
“ Please… ” he begs.
The pain in his voice is so raw, so anguished, there’s no way his subconscious is dreaming up something from his imagination. I’ve heard the same torment the few times my dad has suffered night terrors. This isn’t just a nightmare.
It’s a memory.
The ragged whimper that slips out of Orion springs tears in my eyes.
I wipe them angrily because I’m not supposed to feel anything for my kidnapper.
I refuse to get Stockholm syndromed. And even though I’m always desperate for dark romance characters to just bang it out as soon as the villain shows an ounce of vulnerability, I’m not supposed to want that in real life.
Right?
I swallow, frozen. Do I let it pass or wake him? My dad only has them when he goes to sleep without my mom, usually on the couch after watching a game. As far as I know, she’s never woken him, but as soon as she sits with him, he calms down. But I feel like that’s way too intimate?—
“ Help… ”
I whip the blanket off and ease down from the cot. Despite everything, including my own good sense, I can’t watch him suffer like this.
My muscles groan, but I bite my lip to stay silent, crawling toward him on my knees. His every twitch nearly makes me turn right back around, but his eyes stay squeezed shut, his mouth muttering faster now, and I keep going.
He jerks again, twisting the fabric like he’s pulling something. The movement dislodges the crossbow behind him, sending it skittering toward me.
I freeze. The dart is locked and ready. There are even extras laying around, having spilled from the quiver attached to the main frame. I could plunge them all into his chest, depress the triggers this time, and run.
“ No, please… ” he whimpers.
My breath catches. I quietly push the weapon aside and crawl the rest of the way to him.
“ No! ”
“Orion?” I whisper.
No response, but now I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow. Heat radiates off him, hotter than the stove’s fire. Whatever’s gripping him must be excruciating, twisting his body in painful contortions.
“ … fire. Get… out… save… Hatch… her… please! ”
The ache in my chest almost knocks the air from me. I sink beside him and do the only thing I can think of.
“Shh, shh, Orion, it’s okay. You’re okay…”
Leaning up against the door, I ease him down so I can hold him. Even in sleep, he tenses, then relaxes the instant his head rests in my lap.
I should be asleep myself. Not sleeping can be hell for me, but maybe it’s okay since I’ve slept a total of a billion hours in the past forty-eight. And I don’t know why, but… I can’t leave him, not when some memory has him in its chokehold.
His face stays pinched, jaw clenched. My hands hover over his head, unsure what to do with them now that I’m here. He whimpers again. Moisture that had collected at the corner of his eye trails down his cheek, and I catch the tear with my fingertips.
I don’t hesitate anymore, threading my hand through his hair and brushing it back from his forehead in soft strokes. Lightning flashes through the windows, flickering over the agony carved into his face.
“You’re okay,” I murmur again, barely audible over the thunder as I massage his head.
I saw Dad do this once for Momma when her illness ravaged her mind after a particularly bad depressive episode. I’m sure he did it other times, but I’d snuck into their room one night and found them this way.
The manic episode before that was a hesitant sort of fun.
We exploded with laughs but still held our breath, all of us waiting for the shoe to drop.
Momma had all the energy in the world to keep up with me and Nox—taking us for daily beignets, dancing with a brass band in Jackson Square, visiting the Audubon Zoo over and over again.
It was great. Kind of. Because by then, Nox and I already knew it wouldn’t last.
We were right.
One day she just… wouldn’t get out of bed. The meds she hated taking for her mania, ones that seemed to torture her more than the mania ever did, had finally started working.
The tear stains on her pillow and the mascara streaks down her cheeks broke something in me, sparking dread and empathy I didn’t understand yet.
The highs lasted longer, but they felt brief when the lows went on for an eternity.
She tried her damnedest not to let us see her like that, but my parents never hid her bipolar disorder, teaching us that it is a part of her.
Still, it was hard at ten years old to see her go from on top of the world to the very depths of it.
It still is. Especially now that I know what it’s like.
That night I snuck in, Dad held her in their bed, whispering in French and singing lullabies Dad’s mom, my grand-mère, used to sing. I never paid attention to the words. Now I wish I knew them.
I hum the tune instead, hoping it’s enough.
The tightness in my chest releases the moment Orion’s tension melts under my hand.
He exhales a shaky breath against my thigh, then shifts.
I still, but his eyes stay closed as one arm threads behind my back, circling my waist. His hand catches the wrist I’ve braced on the ground, and his other arm comes around my front to tug me impossibly closer, molding me against him like a pillow.
I frown at his hand wrapped around my wrist, finally close enough to analyze the rough, glossy webbing that spans both his palms. His grip is strong as I slightly turn my hand to better see the damage, knowing already that they’re not callouses.
His skin is discolored in uneven patches, pale ridges and darker valleys melted together in a way that can only be from heat and flame. A pit forms in my stomach at the confirmation.
I’ve seen wounds like this my whole life. They’re both gorgeous and terrifying to behold every time I look at my father’s face and know what he had to endure. The pain he suffered.
Orion’s palms are covered in burn scars.
A million questions flood my mind, but if he’s anything like my dad, answers will come on his time.
Orion’s head turns toward me, and my pulse races.
Despite how wrong the reaction is, my inner muscles flutter at his closeness to the apex of my thighs.
With my hurt leg stretched out and the other bent, his lips ghost dangerously over my covered sex.
The thin T-shirt I borrowed and my panties do nothing to block his heavy, sleepy breaths coasting through the fabric.
I bite my lip, then after a few more of his deep breaths, I stroke his hair again, trying not to think about the desire tugging my core. I stay like that for a long time, long enough for the forbidden ache to settle and for my legs to go numb beneath him. But I can’t bring myself to move.
“You’re… here…” he mutters, words carrying nothing but relief.
I swallow, my gaze dragging from the fire and down to him.
“I’m here.”
He squeezes me, tightening his hold on my wrist too. The FURY tattooed across his scarred knuckles shifts with the motion. Those marks should terrify me, the same way the skeleton ballerina inked on his ribs should. But they don’t.
Instead, my gaze traces the letters like answers lie somewhere between the scars, as if they’ll explain why I’m soothing the man intent on forcing me to marry him, all because I couldn’t stand him suffering in his dreams.
“What am I going to do with you, Orion Fury,” I whisper, echoing his own words.
I don’t expect an answer, but after thunder rumbles and fire crackles, his deep voice pleads softly.
“Stay with me.”
My pulse stutters. My hand stills in his hair.
I swallow, not really sure what I’m doing until I’ve slipped my wrist from his grasp.
His grip tenses before letting go, and I lace my fingers with his, holding his tortured palm.
Leaning back against the door, I find way too much peace in the way the muscles relax in his jaw and around his eyes.
Then I tell the truth.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Maybe that’s because he’s trapped me, or maybe because he’ll catch me if I run.
But then there’s that other possibility. The one sneaking into every doubt cracking my resolve, growing bolder.
After everything my stalker in black has done to steal me, to keep me, the dumb jokes, the way he takes my insults with a grin, the adrenaline of all we’ve been through… how he saved me…
Maybe I want to stay.
Just yesterday, I was so sure I hated him.
But after tonight, I’m not sure what I feel.