Chapter 8 Nightmares Have Teeth
Bastian
A faint sound, barely registering, cuts through the silence like a blade, striking me deep in the chest and propelling me into motion before I can think.
She’s mine to care for now. Ethan knows to stay back—he understands the need for space and control. I appreciate his restraint.
Her door is closed; knocking would only delay things. I need to get to her, to assess and take charge of the situation. I turn the handle and step inside. A dim glow from the hallway slices through the darkness, but the air is thick with something heavy.
Chaos. Lila is tangled in the blankets, curled tightly, looking impossibly small as she shrinks away from some unseen horror. Even from the doorway, I can smell the sharp tang of fear-sweat mingling with the sweet scent of her skin. A damp sheen coats her temples, dark hair plastered against her head, and her chest hitches in frantic, shallow bursts—a struggle to draw enough air. Her fingers clench the rumpled sheets like a lifeline against a crushing tide.
This isn’t just a nightmare; it’s a haunting echo. Panic, raw and consuming, grips her even in sleep. She isn’t just dreaming; she’s reliving it. The stutter in her breath and the tremors racing through her limbs show she’s trying to disappear, to make herself smaller, unseen, unheard—a futile tactic in the face of fear.
I’ve seen these nightmares before on battle-hardened soldiers, men broken by war. But this feels different. They understood the risks; she was pulled into this nightmare without a choice. Now she’s trapped, even in sleep. This is unacceptable.
I pause by the door, then begin to move slowly, deliberately, avoiding any sudden sounds. I can’t startle her, can’t let her slip deeper into panic. If I wake her the wrong way, I become the enemy.
Another sound tears from her throat—a choked whimper, pure terror that slices through the quiet and guts me. My stomach twists, a fierce possessive instinct surging within me. She’s mine to protect. My fingers curl into fists for a moment before I force them open. She needs calmness, not more tension.
Her helplessness gnaws at me—an unfamiliar frustration coils deep in my chest. I hate seeing her like this. Hate the lack of control. I can only be here, steady and waiting. Her breath stutters again, shaking harder beneath the blankets. She’s spiraling, her own mind turning traitor, locking her down deeper.
Enough.
I sit on the edge of the bed, keeping my voice firm, calm. An anchor. “Lila.”
No response.
I reach out, brush fingertips against her cheek—light, careful. Testing. “Lila, wake up.”
Her body jerks. Not awake. Her pulse hammers too fast, erratic beneath her skin. Breathing worsens, bordering on hyperventilation. Frantic little gasps pulling in nothing.
“Breathe, Little One.” Command disguised as comfort.
Still nothing. Locked too deep.
Exhaling slowly, I slide my palm to her cheek, thumb running along the damp skin beneath her eye. A claiming touch. “You’re safe. You need to wake up now.”
A shudder rolls through her. Her entire frame locks for a split second before she gasps, eyes flying open—wide, glassy, lost.
She isn’t here. Not yet. Gaze darts wildly, unfocused. Body frozen, locked in the terror holding her captive. The room doesn’t exist for her—only the ghosts of before.
Maybe she sees walls that aren't there. Shadows that don't belong. Feels cold hands, suffocating. Whatever memory holds her, she isn't free.
“Lila.” I tighten my grip just enough so she can’t bolt. Can’t allow that. “You’re safe.”
She flinches, whites of her eyes flashing in the gloom. Muscles coiled—attack or run. Nowhere to go.
Her gaze darts around the room, frantic, searching for someone? Then, finally, her eyes land on me.
Chest heaves. Lips part. No words.
I lace my fingers through her hair to the nape of her neck—slow, deliberate. Anchoring her. Need to ground her. Other hand cups her cheek, tilting her face up slightly. Make her see me. “Breathe, Little One. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” I take a slow, measured breath, exaggerating the motion. Show her control. “Just like that. With me.”
She tries. A shallow breath sucked in. Attempting to slow it down. Body still trembling. Caught between then and now.
Another broken sound slips from her throat. Her grip tightens around my hand like she fears letting go. Damn it. Something inside me cracks wide open.
No thought. Just reaction. Body moves before the mind catches up, compelled by a raw, undeniable need. To fix. To impose order on this chaos. I slide closer, the air crackling with unspoken… something.
My hand hovers over her back for a heartbeat. Torn. Pull her close? Maintain discipline? A line I hadn’t intended to cross. Seeing her like this… it unravels the control I fight so hard to maintain.
I shift again on the bed. Muscles coil, bracing for her reaction. But she stays still. A silent yielding settles between us. I stretch out beside her, gently guiding her toward the heat of my body. When she finally gives in, tension bleeds out of me—a quiet acknowledgment. She’s choosing this, trusting me, if only for now.
She collapses against me. The dam breaks. Every ounce of tension melts. Fuck. That’s when it happens—an unwelcome, insistent heat pools low in my belly. Cock hardens, pressing hot, heavy against the yielding curve of her hip.
Purely physical. A betrayal. Body reacting to the sudden, shocking intimacy of holding her small, trembling frame. Not planned or wanted. Especially not now.
“I’m sorry,” the whisper escapes, quiet, rough. A tactical retreat? Or a genuine slip? “Just ignore it. An involuntary reaction to this… closeness. It’ll pass.”
She nods slightly. A watery sound, almost a shaky giggle, escapes her lips. The sound slices through the remaining tension. A glimpse of her spirit. Relief floods me, sharp and unexpected. Her managing even that small sound feels like a victory.
Can’t have her feeling this. Not now. I need to comfort, not complicate.
But the warmth of her breath ghosting my skin, the unexpected rightness of her fit against me, the sheer vulnerability radiating from her—it bypasses conscious thought. Too close. Too fucking intimate. Grit my teeth. Force a slow, steadying breath. Will the heat away. Focus solely on the tremor still running through her.
But it's impossible to ignore the raw, physical pull. The soft press of her. The heat of her skin seeping into mine. A dangerous craving I shouldn’t allow. A vulnerability in me I cannot afford.
Clench my jaw. Shove the thoughts down. Focus. Not the time . But the truth gnaws—I want her. Badly. Can't keep pretending otherwise. Not forever.
A ragged breath shudders through her as she melts against my chest. Her arms are trapped between us—will she hold on or push away? She doesn't push me away.
I draw her closer, wrapping one arm around her back to anchor her against me. My other hand slides gently up to cradle the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her damp hair as I urge her to relax, letting her feel safe. Her body shakes. Each inhale still uneven. But she’s here. Not running. Not trapped in the memory. Not anymore.
Her scent, warm, slightly sweet, mixed with the salt of her skin—wraps around me. Grounding me as much as I ground her. Feel every quiver, every tremor running through her as she slowly, painstakingly, pulls herself back.
Her breath, once sharp, ragged, evens out. Slow, shaky inhales against my collarbone. Each exhale still unsteady, but carrying something different. Reluctance giving way to the smallest hint of trust. Allowing herself, just for a moment, to believe. Safe. No more fighting.
Then, finally. A whisper.
“…Thank you.”
Chest tightens. The words cut deeper than expected. Two syllables. Heavy with plea, a confession. A quiet surrender she likely doesn't even realize.
I say nothing. Just hold her closer. My lips brush the crown of her head. A silent promise I can't yet articulate.
Not a kiss. But it carries weight. A quiet claim. An understanding too fragile for words. Her warmth, her breath finally steadying—it signals a shift. An undeniable beginning. I’m not built for this. Not meant to let anyone in. Yet, as her body relaxes, matching my rhythm, there’s no turning back. A line is crossed.
Her fingers twitch against my chest. Hesitate. Then let go completely. Breaths slow, calming. The weight of her trust—heavy. I didn't plan this. Becoming something to her. But here I am. I remain there, holding her. Feeling her warmth. Finally still.
Lila's dangerous. Not a physical threat. A threat to my control. She makes me feel things I lock away. Things I don’t want to name. The way she fits against me. Her trust is sacred, breakable. I'm not ready. I can't let go.
She sighs softly. Last remnants of tension dissipate. I should move. Put distance between us. Maintain the lines. But I stay. Holding onto her warmth as much as she seems to need mine. Control feels… different right now. A precarious balance.
Time slips away. Minutes bleed together. Her breathing stays deep, even. Asleep. Truly asleep now. My own eyes feel heavy. The adrenaline crash leaves behind a bone-deep weariness. Just for a moment, I let my guard drop, resting my head back against the headboard, her weight a surprising comfort against me.
A few hours later, a soft knock sounds at the door. My eyes snap open. Instantly alert. Ethan.
Lila stirs slightly against me, a soft murmur escaping her lips.
Ethan knocks again, louder this time. "Bas? Lila? Dinner's almost ready."
Right. Dinner. Need to re-establish normalcy. Carefully, I shift, easing away from Lila. She mumbles a protest in her sleep, reaching blindly for the warmth. My gut clenches. She's too attached, too fast.
Gently touching her shoulder, I speak softly but firmly. "Lila. Wake up now."
Her eyes flutter open, blinking slowly. Confusion clouds them first, then she remembers and there is no fear this time. Just weariness. She looks up at me, silent.
"Ethan's said dinner is ready," I tell her, keeping my voice even. Back in control. "Go take a shower. Freshen up. Meet us in the dining room in fifteen." A clear instruction. She needs routine, needs structure.
She pushes herself up slowly, running a hand through her tangled hair. Her gaze lingers on me for a fraction of a second – searching? Questioning? Then she nods, a simple, quiet acceptance. Relief mixes with something sharper, responsibility. She slides off the bed without a word and heads towards the ensuite bathroom, closing the door softly behind her.
The moment the latch clicks, my phone vibrates silently in my pocket. Caller ID blocked. Standard.
I rise from the bed, straightening my clothes, deliberately compartmentalizing the last few hours. I need to be sharp now. I step into the hallway, moving towards the stairs as I answer. "Cross."
The same clipped, familiar voice. "Activity picked up. Mikhailov's network. They're shaking trees harder than usual."
My hand tightens on the railing. "Specifics?"
"Chatter about LA. Something's got them on edge. Word is he's putting serious pressure on anyone who might know something about his missing wife. Along with some unexpected movement among his associates."
Kolya. The threat is tangible. In our nearest major city. Fuck. "Keep monitoring. I want updates the second anything shifts."
"Understood."
The line clicks dead. I pocket the phone, a cold certainty settling in my gut.
I continue down the stairs. The smell of food drifts from the kitchen. Normalcy. I walk into the kitchen where Ryker and Ethan are waiting, leaning against the counter. Ethan glances up, observant as always. Ryker looks coiled, impatient.
"Just got a call," I state, keeping my voice low, leaning against the doorframe. "Intel source. Mikhailov's network is getting restless. He's escalating operations in LA."
Ethan pushes off the counter, his expression immediately serious. "How solid?"
"Solid enough," I reply. "He's making noise. Trying to put pressure on anyone who might know something about his missing wife, maybe one of his rivals took her. Along with some unexpected movement among his associates."
"And Ryker," I add, my voice dropping to a near growl, a clear warning. "Not one word about her ribs tonight. Not a hint. We handle that tomorrow when Doc Evans can check her properly. Tonight, we give her peace. Understood?"
Ryker's jaw works, the muscle ticking violently. He stares back, rebellion warring with the ingrained habit of following my orders. Finally, he gives a jerky, resentful nod. "Understood," he bites out.
"Good," I say, pushing off the doorframe. "Keep it light. Keep it normal." But nothing feels normal anymore.
Dinner is a quiet affair. Strained. They follow my orders – keep it light, keep it normal. Lila picks at her food, exhaustion still clinging to her like a shroud, but she doesn't flinch away from conversation. She even answers a few of Ryker’s less abrasive questions, though her eyes keep darting towards me, seeking… reassurance? Confirmation? I keep my expression neutral, controlled. Ryker honors his word, his explosive energy simmering just beneath the surface, held in check by my earlier command. Ethan tries to bridge the gaps, drawing her out gently. It’s a fragile truce, this semblance of normalcy.
After dinner, she disappears back to her room almost immediately. The rest of us disperse, Ryker likely hitting the gym to burn off steam, Ethan probably diving back into the digital world.
I retreat to my office. Pour a scotch. Stare at the financial reports on the screen, but the numbers blur. My thoughts remain fixed on the too-fragile woman down the hall. Control feels like sand slipping through my fingers. Restless energy thrums beneath my skin.
Hours pass. The house settles into the deep quiet of night. The only sound is the low hum of the security systems. I haven’t moved from my desk, nursing the same scotch.
Then I hear it.
Soft at first. A choked gasp. Then a whimper, sharper this time. Cutting through the silence just like before.
My eyes close for a brief second. Again. A weary resignation settles over me.
No hesitation this time. The internal debate that once raged about lines crossed, control lost is silent. The chair scrapes softly against the floor as I push back from the desk, my body already moving, drawn by an invisible cord. Her need is a command I no longer question.
Her door is slightly ajar. Did she leave it open subconsciously? Seeking safety? I push it open wider. The scene is achingly familiar – tangled sheets, frantic movements, the scent of fear already starting to permeate the air. She’s trapped in the terror again.
I don’t speak her name. Don’t try to wake her with words. Instinct, sharp and overriding, bypasses thought.
I move directly to the bed. She’s whimpering steadily now, small, broken sounds that twist something low in my gut. I slide onto the mattress, the dip causing her to still for a moment, trapped between fear and the sudden awareness of presence.
Then, deliberately, I reach for her. Gather her against my chest, pulling her back against my warmth. One arm slides around her waist, holding her securely. The other tangles possessively in her hair, anchoring her head.
She gasps, body rigid with panic for a heartbeat, fighting the unseen. "Shhh," I murmur, the sound low, vibrating against her skin. A command. An anchor. " You're safe now."
And just like before, the fight slowly drains out of her. The frantic trembling eases into softer shudders. Her breathing hitches, then begins to deepen, evening out against my chest. The rigid lines of her body soften, melting into mine. This time, there’s less resistance, a quicker acceptance. As if some part of her already knew I would come.
I hold her steady, staring into the darkness over her head. The unwelcome heat stirs again, low and insistent, but tonight the usual reprimand in my mind doesn't surface. It’s still a betrayal of control, yes, but one that now feels... inevitable. A consequence rather than a transgression.
This closeness. Her vulnerability, settling into the curve of my body as if it belongs there. My own, dangerously exposed by the simple act of holding her in the dead of night. It’s rapidly becoming the most uncontrolled, necessary thing in my life. And that thought is more terrifying than any Russian mob boss messing up the nearest city.