Chapter 10
SASHA
I wake up to the bed jostling, and for a moment, I forget where I am. I forget everything and am deeply confused by the scent of cedar and fresh air.
And the heat of someone next to me.
But I’m not scared. I know, in my bones, it’s someone good.
I open my eyes, though I’m half-sure I’m dreaming. It’s dark, but I can see the walls are made of logs, and at my feet, there’s a shaker footboard.
Then I remember—I’m at Griffin’s place.
Everything crashes down on me all at once. I suck in a breath, my stomach lurching.
No. No panicking.
I’m safe. Far away from Vincent Creelman and his terrifying giant of a goon. Right next to Griffin.
I reach for him, but when I touch him, my hand glides across damp skin. He’s sweating, though the sheet is down over his hips. The bed bounces again as he turns one way, then the other.
“Griffin?”
He mumbles something I don’t catch.
He’s dreaming.
A glance at the clock says it’s four thirty in the morning. We’ve only been asleep for a few hours.
“No,” Griffin says, the word garbled. But I can hear the anguish in his voice.
It’s a strange tone from him.
It’s not a good dream.
“Griffin,” I say his name louder, placing my hand on his shoulder again.
He feels hot. Is he sick? I’m not good with sickness.
I have no idea what to do if someone gets ill.
When I was sick as a kid, Mom used to just hand me a bunch of painkillers and pat my leg, keeping a scarf pulled up over her mouth so she wouldn’t get infected before leaving me alone in my room.
I touch my hand to Griffin’s forehead. It’s sweaty, but I don’t think it feels hotter than normal.
Just a nightmare. Night sweats. That’s a thing, right?
He mumbles again. Then, “No!” Louder than before. “Not there.”
He’s in distress, Sasha. I need to wake him up.
“Griffin.” I shake his shoulder.
He jerks sideways, away from me.
I get up on my knees, taking both his shoulders in my hands. I shake him hard. “Griffin. Wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”
He stills instantly. The light is so dim I can just make out the outline of his face.
Still, I can see his eyes are still closed and his brows slanting. “Laura…don’t go in there—”
He winces suddenly.
My stomach twists. Who’s Laura?
“Griffin,” I say softly, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “It’s not Laura. It’s Sasha.”
He jerks, then stills. When I pull back up, his eyes are open. Not just open, but wide. He studies me a moment, as if trying to remember who I am.
“Fuck. Sasha, I’m sorry.”
Then he closes his eyes, his hands reaching up to my sides as if reassuring himself I’m here. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. Maybe he’s still dreaming, but I don’t move, too overwhelmed by the feeling of his big, broad hands spreading across my ribs so gently.
His eyes pop open, and he drops his hands. “Sorry,” he says gruffly.
“It’s okay. Are you okay?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. He nods. “Fine.”
He doesn’t look fine. He looks rattled.
His eyes meet mine. “I didn’t say anything, did I? Ford says I talk in my sleep sometimes.”
“Ford?”
“Work guy. We do stakeouts together. Lot of forced proximity. It’s terrible. He snores.”
I laugh softly, the mood suddenly less tense, like danger has passed. Stakeouts? I file that one away. Then I realize he’s waiting for me to answer his question. “You talked but…it was nothing I could really understand.”
I don’t know why I lie. Maybe because it feels like that was private. Something I wasn’t supposed to hear. The man is like a closed book, and I somehow felt like I was snooping inside.
Griffin studies me long enough that I feel my cheeks grow hot. He knows I’m not telling him the truth. But he nods, accepting the lie. He closes his eyes again. “Sorry for waking you.”
“It’s all good.” I lie back down.
Who’s Laura?
Griffin sits up suddenly, swinging his legs out of bed and running his hand over his head.
My stomach clenches. Is he going back out to the couch?
I don’t want him to go, but I’ve got a small slice of pride still left.
I won’t beg him to stay twice. Especially not if it’s making him have nightmares about some other woman.
Is she still in the picture? The barren state of his place says no. So has the fact that he hasn’t mentioned anyone. But he’s not exactly forthcoming—I know next to nothing about him.
Griffin speaks over his shoulder. “I’m just going to the bathroom. You need anything?”
He’s coming back. I try not to let the extreme relief show in my voice as I pull the sheet back up over me. I don’t miss how he made sure to tell me what he’s doing. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
I lie back after he leaves, my mind spinning.
I haven’t had much time to think, given everything that’s happened. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about Griffin a lot over the past few weeks since that terrible night with Vincent.
Except, thought is not a strong enough word.
I’ve spent almost every night lying awake, replaying that night, trying hard to only focus on the moment he showed up, his face hidden under that firefighter’s hat.
At first it was only comfort. Imagining the feeling of total safety, because thinking about him was like a balm to the sharp, jagged fear of how that night could have gone.
But then, just like how I pictured all the bad things that could have happened—or maybe to try to counteract that—I started picturing ways it could have gone after that.
First he’d punch the other two men out, or hold them so I could. That part felt good, the cracks of their noses, their screams of pain. A little too good.
But once I got that far, I started picturing other things.
Griffin picking me up, transporting me somehow back to my apartment and laying me down in bed. Reassuring me with that gruff voice spoken in the dark, his breath hot on my neck.
I should have stopped there, but it felt so good, imagining him staying with me. He’d lie with me, like he did tonight. He’d hold me. Stroke my hair. Stroke my back as he held my body against his.
Then his hand would creep down farther, sliding over my ass. His lips would brush skin, and I’d tell him to make me forget.
Okay, so I’ve spent a lot of time picturing this man naked, which is probably not healthy. But damn, it feels good.
I hear the steady beat of Griffin’s bare feet on the floor now, and a moment later, his giant form fills the doorway. Heat jolts through me. I shouldn’t have thought about all my ridiculous fantasies knowing he’d be getting back into bed with me.
I notice as he climbs into bed that his hair is slicked back. He’s splashed water on his face.
The heat inside me cools. God, I’m selfish. He’s going through his own shit right now, and I’m picturing him naked.
Griffin lies down next to me. I want desperately to reach out and touch him again, but I’m not sure if it’s the right thing.
“You okay?” he asks, surprising me.
I hesitate. “I’m fine,” I say. I’m not fine. But I’m not the only one with feelings here.
He’s silent a moment, then he turns so he’s facing away from me. I get the sense he’s still there, in that dream.
I lie there a moment, hesitating. Then I scoot myself over so I’m right up behind him. I slip my arm up over his side, resting my hand against his chest. Not for me, I tell myself, but for him.
For a moment, Griffin doesn’t move. Clearly I’ve overstepped.
But then his arm shifts, and he holds my hand against his chest the way he did on the bike. My insides swirl with all the feelings I’ve tried to tamp down.
I can feel the beat of his heart against my palm. “Are you okay?” I whisper.
“Yes.” His voice is gruff and low, but with only that one little word, I soften against him. Our breathing matches. A long inhale; a full exhale. Repeat.
As my eyes grow droopy, my last thought before sleep comes is that part of my fantasy has come true. For the first time in days, I feel completely, totally safe.