Chapter 9
Jolie
I fell asleep, drowning in the memory of kissing Diarvet. I don't know why I had. I was a nurse for God's sake, I'd bandaged hundreds of wounds. I knew better than to kiss a patient.
But Diarvet wasn't just a patient. He was my friend, my protector. Probably the only soul in the universe who truly understood how I felt about Lilibet. Kissing him hadn't just seemed right—it had felt inevitable, necessary, like drawing breath.
I tried desperately not to let it make things awkward between us, but in the hours after the kiss, everything had shifted. The air crackled with electricity whenever we were together, as though even the jungle held its breath, waiting to see who would make the next move. I wondered that myself.
I jolted awake, muscles tight, chest heaving with ragged breaths that echoed in the silence. Cold sweat beaded my hairline as my body shivered in warning. Something was wrong. The knowledge settled into my bones before my mind could process why.
Silently, I reached across the mattress. My trembling fingers found Lilibet curled beneath the blanket, her chest rising and falling in sleep. Her soft, steady breath calmed my racing heart. Relief flooded me—until I heard it.
A whimper. Low, guttural, and saturated with agony.
Diarvet?
The sound warped and deepened, becoming a strangled groan laced with terror.
A thousand horrific possibilities exploded in my mind.
I saw Diarvet locked in a life-or-death struggle, his massive frame bloodied and broken, fighting to protect us.
I imagined claws, fangs, alien predators stalking our sanctuary.
But there were no battle sounds—just the oppressive jungle silence, punctuated by the groans coming from the other room.
Moving with care not to disturb Lilibet's slumber, I slid out from under the covers. My feet made no sound as they touched the cool floorboards. I leaned over and reached for the knife I kept on the bedside table, something I'd started doing since coming to this alien world.
Diarvet had been amused when he first saw me place a knife on the table.
Not because my desire for protection was funny, but because the knife was so small it could barely cut fruit.
The next morning, he gave me a six-inch blade from his collection: supple leather sheath, handle carved from bone, yellowed with age and use and etched with tribal-like patterns.
The blade came from his youth, earned and bled for—a warrior's rite of passage.
This wasn't just a weapon. This was Diarvet protecting me.
My fingers closed around the handle, slipping the blade from its sheath. I held it as Diarvet taught me—hammer grip, blade angled, ready. The weight in my palm was both comforting and terrifying.
Eden’s huge moon lit the night, pale light streamed through the windows, dust motes dancing gleefully. I slipped from the bedroom, as silent as possible, moving across the hallway toward Diarvet's room.
His door was cracked, and I pushed it open, grimacing at the faint creak. He lay on the bed, blanket to his waist, muscular chest rising and falling unevenly, face contorted with pain.
No blood. No threat. Just a nightmare.
He was groaning, his head thrashing back and forth as he fought the horrors in his mind.
I knew nightmares. The kids on the oncology ward where I’d worked knew nightmares. They knew terror and pain in ways few children should. And because of that, I had learned how to wake someone gently. How to soothe worried minds and hearts scared of the monsters that stalked their sleep.
But Diarvet wasn’t a child. He wasn’t even a man.
He was a massive alien warrior capable of snapping me in half without much effort.
I knew about PTSD and how it could turn minds into war zones.
Yet his handsome face, etched with terror, made me certain I couldn't leave him to fight alone—even with the danger of waking someone lost in their nightmare.
"Diarvet," I whisper-yelled, keeping my voice as low as possible not to wake Lilibet. I didn't want her to see him like this.
At the sound of my voice, his expression changed, becoming less tormented, but he didn't awaken.
"Diarvet," I hissed again, stepping closer. I dropped the knife on the chest nearby, not wanting either of us hurt if I startled him.
I reached out slowly, my hand hovering just above his shoulder. His massive frame was tense, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. A low growl rumbled from his throat, and his head thrashed from side to side.
"No, not Lilibet," he muttered, his voice thick with anguish. "Please... not her...."
My heart twisted painfully in my chest, a sharp ache that radiated through my ribs. Whatever haunted his sleep was crushing him. I eased my hand onto his shoulder, my fingertips registering the feverish heat of his skin, the taut muscles beneath trembling with whatever demons plagued his dreams.
"Diarvet, you're safe," I whispered, applying just enough pressure to ground him. "It's just a dream. You're here with me. It's safe. Lilibet is safe."
His breathing was ragged, coming in sharp, panted gasps. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool night air. His eyes moved rapidly beneath his closed lids, trapped in whatever horror was playing out in his mind.
"Wake up," I said more firmly, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. "Diarvet, come back to me."
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. He bolted upright with an agonized groan that pierced the silence. His hand flew to his throat, gaze frantically searched the space, as if looking for someone who wasn’t there.
"Lilibet!" he gasped, his voice raw and broken. "No, no, no…."
“She’s safe,” I promised, settling on the edge of the mattress, my hands resting on his shoulders.
Recognition and relief flashed across his face, and suddenly I was in his arms. Cradled on his lap and pressed to his chest. I felt his heart pounding wildly, his whole body trembling, as if purging the remnants of terror.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him tight. "It's okay," I murmured. "I'm here. Lilibet is safe. We're all safe."
Slowly, he relaxed, the tightness of his body softening, but his hold on me remained firm.
"I'm sorry," he said gruffly.
"It's okay," I soothed, letting my fingers sift through the dark blue hair curling at the nape of his neck. "It was just a nightmare."
He pulled back slightly to look at me, his eyes dark and haunted.
"Not just a nightmare," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"She had you. The queen... she had Lilibet, and you, and…
." His voice broke, and he pressed his face against my shoulder, the things he’d witnessed in sleep too horrific to share.
He shook in my arms, this powerful warrior splintered by nightmares.
I moved to lie on the bed beside him, drawing him down until his head rested against my shoulder, the weight of him settling into me.
My fingers combed gently through his hair, feeling the soft strands slip between them as his ragged breathing gradually slowed and steadied.
"I used to have them too," I whispered into the darkness. "Nightmares. For months after I was abducted. They felt so real I'd wake up screaming."
His arms tightened around me. "How did you make them stop?"
"Time," I said softly. "And knowing I wasn't alone." I pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. "You're not alone either."
We lay there in the quiet, his breathing slowly syncing with mine. After a long moment, he lifted his head to meet my gaze.
"I was tortured," he said so softly I almost didn't hear him. "By the queen. Vraxxan and I grew up together. We were close, more like brothers. When he escaped Zarpazia to rescue the female who is now his mate, she knew I'd helped him. She… she tried to make me talk."
"Oh Diarvet,” I breathed, my heart feeling like it fractured in two.
"She kept me chained, inflicting tiny cuts all over my body, peeling the scales from my flesh. Then, when I was near death, she used a medi-unit to heal me and start all over again."
"Oh my God, Diarvet," I whispered, tears welling in my eyes. My fingertips trailed along his cheek, the scales warm and soft against my touch.
"I never gave them up," he murmured. "She figured out where they were hiding by her own methods. But I never betrayed them. Never."
“Of course not,” I soothed. This male was loyal. I knew that to the marrow of my bones.
I’d learned enough about trauma to understand that sometimes speaking the nightmare aloud could strip it of power, rendering the shadowy terrors impotent in the light.
The act of giving voice to the horrors that stalked his sleep might help him reclaim some measure of control over his own mind.
"Are your nightmares about the torture?" I asked gently, my fingers still threading through his hair in soothing strokes.
"Yes," he sighed heavily, the sound seeming to come from the very depths of his soul.
His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, as if even speaking about it required tremendous effort.
"But that’s not the worst part. The physical pain.
.. somehow my mind has learned to let that go.
" His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, raw with anguish.
"Mostly I dream about her getting to Vraxxan and his mate... watching as she kills them and I’m helpless, unable to do anything to stop her.
" He swallowed hard, his throat working against the emotion threatening to overwhelm him.
"Tonight... tonight it wasn't just them she was hurting.
She had found you and Lilibet, too. She was making me watch as she…
." His voice broke completely, unable to finish the sentence as his body shuddered with the remembered horror.
His hand found mine, threading our fingers together. I squeezed it gently, knowing how much it cost him to be vulnerable.
"I'm here," I whispered. "We're safe."