Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Twelve
Marius
It starts without warning. One second her body lies tense but still beside me, breathing uneven but quiet, my sleeve trapped lightly beneath the weak claim of her fingers, and the next it convulses.
Not a shift or a startle, but a full, violent jolt.
Leona’s entire body snaps tight, her back arching as if something invisible has struck her, and her breath rips out of her in a broken, choking gasp.
Her hand clamps down on my sleeve hard enough to drag the fabric with it, nails biting through cloth as if she is bracing against something trying to pull her under.
“No—”
The word tears out of her raw and uncontrolled before thought can catch up to it.
Her head whips to the side, then back again, her body twisting against the mattress with sudden, frantic force.
Her legs kick out blindly, tangling in the sheets as if they are restraints, and that only makes it worse.
Her movements are sharp and disjointed, not purposeful, not aware, fighting something that is not in this room and is still real enough to make her body believe it has returned.
“Get off—get off me—”
The sound of it lands somewhere low and murderous in me, not because of what she is saying now, but because I know exactly who put those words in her mouth.
I move before thought catches up. My hand closes around her forearm, not grabbing and not pinning, but firm enough to interrupt the wild, flailing motion before she tears her wrist or drives herself off the bed.
Her strength isn’t controlled. It’s desperate, pure panic with no direction and no awareness of what is under her hands or what she might hit.
“Leona.”
It doesn’t reach her. She jerks harder against my hold, her shoulder slamming into me as she twists, trying to wrench free of something only she can feel.
Her breathing has broken completely now, reduced to short, choking gasps that barely make it into her lungs before the next one tears out of her.
She bucks against the mattress, her body trying to escape in every direction at once, her legs kicking again and tangling deeper in the sheets, trapping her more, feeding the panic.
“No—no—stop—”
I shift closer, never on top of her, never like that, but near enough that she cannot disappear from me or hurt herself trying. My other hand comes to her shoulder, steady and grounding, not forcing her down but giving the violent motion a boundary it can break against without breaking her.
“Leona.”
Sharper this time.
Her body seizes at the sound and her breath catches so hard it nearly stops. Every muscle locks for a split second before breaking into another violent struggle. Her head turns sharply, her teeth clench, and a sound gets caught somewhere between a sob and a choke before tearing itself loose.
“I can’t,” she gasps. “I can’t breathe—”
That changes the shape of the moment immediately. My grip shifts, less restrictive, more anchoring. My hand moves from stopping her to giving her something solid to push against instead of letting her fight blindly through empty space.
“Breathe,” I say, lower now. “You can breathe.”
Her chest still heaves, but the air no longer comes in completely broken pieces.
Her eyes fly open, wild and unseeing, passing over me once, twice, without recognition and without focus, filled with raw animal panic.
She shoves against me hard, trying to get away from something her body has already decided is here.
I let the motion happen just enough. I do not trap it.
I do not force her flat. I stay with it, present and steady and immovable where it matters.
“Look at me.”
She doesn’t. Not at first. Her gaze skids past my shoulder, then the wall, then the dark corner of the room as though the threat might be anywhere and everywhere. Her breathing tears through her in ragged pulls.
“Look at me.”
I do not soften it and I do not raise my voice either.
I give her something harder than softness, something immovable, and that reaches her before comfort would.
Her gaze snaps back to me, still not fully there, still half trapped inside whatever memory has her by the throat, but now she is seeing something.
Not the room yet and not me fully, only a point to fix on.
Her hands find me again. This time she is not pushing. She is gripping. Her fingers twist into my sleeve with desperate force.
“Get them off,” she chokes. “Please—”
The words hit like a blade slid quietly between ribs. My jaw tightens so hard it aches, but it does not reach my voice.
“There’s no one here.”
Her body stills for half a second and then trembles harder. Her eyes stay on me now, struggling and searching, trying to force reality to hold still long enough for her to recognize it.
“You’re here,” I say. “With me.”
The words do not land cleanly, not all at once, but they land enough.
Her breathing stutters again, then begins to change.
It is still broken, still rough, but it is no longer spiraling.
Her grip shifts, still tight but no longer fighting me, no longer trying to escape.
Now she is holding and anchoring instead.
Her shoulders drop by a fraction and then more.
It is not calm, not even close, but the violent tension begins to bleed out of her in uneven waves, leaving behind smaller tremors that look almost worse for how helpless they are.
“Marius…”
This time she knows who I am. Recognition settles into her eyes. It is not peace and it is not safety, but it is real, and for now that is enough. I do not move away and I do not close in further either. I hold exactly where I am.
“You’re safe.”
The tremor doesn’t stop. Even after recognition settles and even after she says my name, her body keeps shaking in small, relentless waves, as though the violence has been forced out of her muscles but not out of her system.
Her grip on my sleeve remains locked, fingers twisted so tightly into the fabric that I can feel each separate pulse of strain.
I do not move. One hand stays grounded at her arm, the other near her shoulder, not pressing and not restraining, only present.
Enough for her to feel and enough for her to stay anchored.
I watch her breathing. It is still uneven and still catching, but it is no longer breaking completely.
That is what matters. Everything else can wait.
“You’re here,” I say again, quieter now. “It’s over.”
I do not make the mistake of telling her it is gone.
I know better. Things like this do not leave.
They loosen, if you are lucky, and that is all.
Her fingers shift against my sleeve, not loosening so much as adjusting, as if her body is trying to find a steadier hold on the fact of me.
Her gaze stays on me now, not drifting, but something fragile has appeared in it that was not there before.
It is not fear of me. It is fear of losing me.
I feel that and something in me answers immediately.
Not the violence. Not the part of me that wants the second man on his knees and the boss opened from throat to spine just to see what shape his patience takes then.
Something quieter than that, which is what makes it more dangerous. The need to remain.
I shift my hand along her forearm, slower than slow, letting the contact settle into something more stable without becoming a hold she didn’t choose.
“Breathe.”
The word is softer now, not an instruction but reinforcement. She follows it. Not perfectly, but enough. Her chest rises. Falls. Hitches. Then evens by degrees.
I stay silent after that. I do not fill the space. I do not ask what she saw, what she felt, or whether she remembers everything. I do not drag it out of her while it is still climbing through her body like broken glass. Instead, I give her something else. Consistency. Stillness.
She leans toward me again. Not all at once and not as a collapse.
It is only a gradual shift, her shoulder settling more firmly against my arm, her hand tightening again in my sleeve as if confirming I am still there, still real, still not disappearing because she closed her eyes for half a second.
I let her. I do not close the distance myself. I do not take more than she gives.
The mattress dips beneath the change in her weight. Her breathing slows again, deeper now, though the remnants of the nightmare still drag through it. Her eyes do not leave mine, even as the tension drains from her muscles in increments so slight another man might miss them.
“Marius,” she says again, voice worn thin.
“Yes.”
A pause follows. Her fingers flex once, then still.
“I thought…” Her throat tightens visibly. “I thought it was happening again.”
The words barely exist, but they land anyway. That should have been impossible here, in my house, under my watch, in the room I chose because nothing was supposed to touch her in it but steam and clean sheets and air. Instead I hear myself answer with a calm I do not feel.
“That won’t happen here.”
Her gaze holds mine, searching not for comfort but for truth. I don’t look away. I don’t make it easier to believe by softening it. I let her see exactly what I mean. What I give her is not reassurance. It is law.
After a moment, her shoulders drop again, more fully this time.
She is not relaxed. She may not know that state again for a long while.
But she is less braced. Her grip loosens slightly, not releasing, only easing enough that I know she is no longer fighting the room itself.
She settles back against the mattress without pulling away from me.
If anything, she stays closer now, her shoulder still pressed to my arm, her presence no longer tentative in the same way.
I remain exactly where she leaves me. I do not lie back fully. I do not shift into comfort. I stay angled toward her, a constant point of contact and stability without crowding her space. I will remain like this as long as she needs.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Her breathing steadies further, though it never completely evens out.
The tremor fades, not gone, only buried now beneath exhaustion that finally begins to take hold.
Her eyes grow heavier. I track it. I watch the exact moment her focus starts to slip, not into panic this time, but toward something more dangerous in its own way.
Sleep.
I don’t trust it. Not after that.
She doesn’t let go of me. Not completely.
Her fingers still rest against my sleeve, lighter now, her grip no longer desperate but still present, as if some part of her refuses to lose that point of contact.
I do not move. I do not shift. I do not allow myself to relax fully.
My gaze remains on her, my awareness sharpened to a blade edge, tracking every breath, every movement, every change in muscle and eyelid and hand.
The nightmare has passed. The damage hasn’t. I will not make the mistake of believing one means anything about the other.
Outside, the house remains silent, controlled, and secure. Below us, men move when I tell them to move. Cars go where I send them. Radios stay low. Doors stay shut. Somewhere in the dark beyond the estate walls, two men are still breathing who should not be.
Not for long.
The second man ran. The boss slipped the back hall and left his dead behind him. I will deal with both.
But not until she is fully asleep or fully awake. Not until she is no longer half hanging over the edge of another panic with my name as the only thing keeping her in this room.
So I stay exactly where she placed me, steady and unyielding, something she can rely on whether she is awake or not. I do not close my eyes. I do not sleep. Because if it comes for her again, I will be there before it can take hold.
And next time, I won’t merely drag her back from it. I will take what caused it apart piece by piece and make sure nothing human is left when I am finished.