44. Hendricks
HENDRICKS
Not loud. Not a scream. It’s worse—a choked-off gasp, like someone drowning in silence.
I shoot out of bed before I'm fully conscious, gun in my hand, moving through the bedroom without turning on lights. There’s no question where the sound came from. I hurry soundlessly down the hall to Mandy’s room.
The door's closed but it’s unlocked so I open it.
Mandy’s in the bed, tangled in sheets, her legs thrashing and her arms flailing.
Another sound—half whimper, half snarl—chills my blood. I lower the gun and stride to the bed. "Mandy."
Her eyes open, wild. Unfocused.
She moves before I can react—rolls off the bed, lands in a crouch, hand reaching for a weapon that isn't there.
"Mandy," I say again, quieter, keeping my distance so I don’t startle her more than she is. "It's Hendricks."
She blinks. Once. Twice.
I stay still. Don't move closer. Don't crowd her. She's not awake yet, not fully, and I know better than to touch someone in this state, particularly someone who’s been abused.
Her breathing is ragged, her shoulders heaving. Sweat dampens her hair, and her tank top clings to her skin. She’s wearing underwear, thank fuck—one less thing to worry about.
"You're at my house," I say, calm and factual. "You're safe. You’re with me."
Her eyes focus on me. The wildness recedes a little. "Hendricks?"
"Yeah."
She straightens slowly, her hand dropping from where it was reaching. She looks around the room like she's confirming my words.
Then she laughs, but it's a broken sound.
"Fuck," she mutters, dragging a hand through her hair. "Sorry. I—"
She stops, then she shakes her head, using the bed to leverage herself off the floor. "I'm fine."
“You’re not.” I clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.
"I said I'm fine." To prove it, she moves toward me, but there's something deliberate in the way she does it. Something calculated. Forced. Her hand lands on my chest. “Want me to show you how fine I am?”
I catch her wrist before she can slide her hand lower. "No."
Her eyes flash. "What?"
"That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?" Her voice sharpens. "You came in here. You woke me up. Now you're standing in my room in the middle of the night, and you're telling me that’s not what you want?"
Oh, I fucking want it. She’s barely dressed, her nipples sharp under the cotton. I can smell her—sweaty and sexy—and it causes the predator in me to rise from where I usually have it buried.
My grip tightens on her wrist, but I quickly relax it. "I'm telling you I'm not going to let you use sex to avoid dealing with whatever the hell you just dreamed about."
She jerks her hand free. "I don't need you to psychoanalyze me."
I sigh. "I'm not."
She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.
"Come here." I step closer again—slowly. Giving her time to move away if she wants.
She doesn’t. Frowning, she starts, "Hendricks—"
"Come here," I repeat.
She hesitates. Then she does.
Drawing her into my chest, I wrap my arms around her.
She goes rigid. "What are you doing?"
"Holding you."
"I don't need—"
I rub her back gently. "Yes, you do."
“Let go.” She wedges her hands on my chest and makes a half-hearted attempt to push.
I hold her steady, no force involved, ready to release her if she insists.
"Hendricks—"
"You can fight me if you need," I say quietly, "but you’ll have to be the one to step back."
She's silent for a long moment. Then her body starts to shake. Not crying, just trembling.
I tighten my hold, one hand moving to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. "I've got you," I murmur. "You're safe."
"I don't—" Her voice cracks. "I don't do this."
"I know."
"I don't need—"
"I know."
She makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob—I can't tell. I just tuck her closer into my body and hold her.
"You're an asshole," she whispers.
"Yeah."
Her hands come up slowly, fisting in my shirt, not pulling away but holding on.
I guide her back to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling her down with me. "Lie down.”
She resists. "I'm not—"
"Lie down, Mandy."
She does, reluctantly, and I shift so we're both horizontal, my body spooned around hers, my arm around her waist. She's tense, every muscle locked.
I rub my nose to the back of her neck. "Relax."
"I can't."
Her plaintive tone brings a smile to my lips. "Try."
"This is stupid.” She wiggles like she’s thinking of moving away. “I don't need you to—"
"Stop talking, Amanda."
She goes quiet.
I can feel her heart racing against my forearm. Her breathing is still too fast, too shallow.
"Breathe." I stroke her hair. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
"I know how to breathe," she mumbles.
"Then do it."
She huffs, but she does it.
Slowly, her body starts to soften. Not much, but enough.
I wait until her breathing returns to its normal cadence before I ask, "What did you dream about?"
"Nothing."
"Mandy."
She's silent for so long time I’m surprised when she says, "Turner's house. The raid. Except it wasn't the raid. It was before. When I was—" She stops. "It doesn't matter."
"It does." I kiss her neck.
She shivers. "It doesn't change anything."
"No," I agree. "But it matters."
She shifts slightly, her head turning so she can see my face in the darkness. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you need it."
"That's not an answer."
I shrug. "It's the only one you're getting tonight."
She studies me for a moment, then turns back, settling against me again. "You're going to stay here until I fall asleep, aren’t you?"
"Yes."
"That's insane."
"Probably."
"I'm not going to sleep."
"That's fine."
"Hendricks—"
"Stop fighting me."
She goes quiet again.
Minutes pass. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty.
Her breathing slows. Her body eases.
Then her hand comes up, covering mine where it rests on the pillow next to her. Her fingers lace through mine, and she holds on.
She doesn't sleep at first. I can tell by the way her breathing stays slightly irregular, the way her body tenses every time she starts to drift.
I don't push her. I just hold her hand.