Page 91 of Sinful Scars

“Three…” My skin is covered in sweat, and my hair sticks to my face.

“Four…” I work through my grounding exercise.

“Five…” I’m in my apartment.

“Six…” There are sirens wailing nearby.

“Seven…” My skin smells of my new strawberry soap.

“Eight…” It was just a nightmare.

“Nine… Ten…”

I’m no stranger to waking up and thinking I’m trapped inside my childhood home as it goes up in flames. The recurring nightmares are what got me to see Dr. Mills in the first place.

But just when I think I’m safe, they creep backinto my life, and I’m eight years old all over again. Terrified and alone.

They tend to happen when I’m stressed or anxious, so I’m not surprised that I’m starting to experience them again. The trauma of the last few months has likely uncovered some old wounds from my past, and despite my best efforts at talking through my feelings with Dr. Mills, I’m not going to heal overnight.

These things take time.

But that doesn’t make the nightmares any less upsetting.

I reach across to switch on the light before throwing back the covers and heading into my bathroom to splash some cold water on my face.

If I had more energy, I’d get in the shower and wash away the sweat that soaks my skin, but I’m exhausted. So, this will have to do.

When I walk back into the bedroom, my eyes land on a single red rose that has been placed on the end of my bed.

Hewas here.

I swallow a sob of happiness as I dart over to the bed and pick the flower up. I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply.

“Lev,” I whisper.

He wants to comfort me, even if it means risking being caught by one of Mikhail’s men.

He hasn’t left me.

The thought makes my heart swell.

I climb back into bed and lay the rose down on the pillow beside me, letting it bring me comfort as I close my eyes and drift back to sleep.

My head’sgroggy when I wake up a few hours later. It doesn’t help that the sunlight is streaming in through my window, making me wince as I peel open my eyes.

Since when is it broad daylight at six a.m. in October?

“Oh, my god!”

I sit up and search around the bed for my phone.

“Ohno,” I groan when I realize it’s almost eight, and I’m due at the hospital… well, now.

Cursing under my breath, I sprint into the bathroom and start trying to make myself look somewhat presentable for work when the wave of nausea that followed me home from the café yesterday hits me all over again.

I clutch my stomach.

For a brief second, I think I’m in the clear. But just as I’m reaching for my mascara, it hits all over again and the next thing I know, I’m bending over the toilet and retching.

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