Page 148 of Lawless God

He sits up, yawning as he twists to open the drawer of his bedside table. Then he turns on the small lamp. “I know because they wake me up.” Opening the small notebook he just pulled out of his drawer, he shows me what he’s written in there. “Look.”

There are lines and lines of days of the weeks and times.

“Monday, four twenty-seven,” he reads. “Tuesday, four thirty-one. Wednesday, four thirty, Thursday—”

“Whoa, wait, wait, wait.” I snatch the notebook out of his hands. “You…you’ve been keeping track of when those things happen?”

“How am I meant to help if I don’t keep track? That’s what the article said,” he explains as impassively as ever.

My heart swells, and I press a hand against my stomach when something blossoms in there. It unfurls so strongly it tingles all the way to my toes.

“Nate…”

The notebook disappears from my hand as he grabs it back. “Anyway. I think four-fifteen is a good choice. What do you think?”

He looks up at me, gaze focused. As he observes me, he doesn’t notice my awed expression, or if he does, he doesn’t understand it.

“So you should really sleep now. It’s late.”

I can barely talk through the ball in my throat. “I…erm…” I shake my head, pressing my hand harder against my stomach. “Can I name it?”

His eyebrows pull up, and he tilts his head to the side. “Always, little sunflower.”

“I’m grateful,” I rasp. “That you did this for me. It—it makes me feel taken care of.”

He nods slowly. “I didn’t realize that. It’s just paper and ink, you know? But that’s good, I guess.”

“Yes,” I chuckle. He is so oblivious to how caring what he did is. “It’s good.”

I startle when he wakes me up, my body sweaty and my hands aching from being curled into tight fists.

“What the hell?” I croak. “My fingers hurt.”

“Yeah, because that’s how they always start. You get cold, you sweat, and you tighten all over.” He huffs. “And then the screaming and kicking and slapping starts. I’m glad we’re avoiding that tonight.”

In the dark, I can barely see him, but I notice his messy blond hair and the way he runs his hand through it. He’s not wearing his glasses, and it gives him a less serious look than usual. He seems more relaxed like this, more approachable.

“Sorry for the kicking and slapping,” I murmur.

“Don’t worry, we’ll put a stop to these. I’ll have you see a therapist or something. The article said—”

“Holy hell, that article is your bible.”

He laughs softly, lying down by my side again. “Maybe we should just start with a doctor.”

“Maybe.” It’s weird talking about the future like a real married couple. And yet I can’t stop. “And if I see a therapist, maybe you could see one for…you know.”

“What?”

God, he’s completely clueless.

“What your foster dad did.”

He snorts and shakes his head. “I don’t give a shit about that.”

“I do.”

He turns onto his side, facing me. Putting a hand on my cheek, he caresses just under my eye with his thumb. “You do?”

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