Page 64 of Red Dreams

I lean into his touch, exhaustion sweeping over me. The cottage blurs again, but it's not from panic this time.

Kaden pulls me into his arms, and I let myself sink into his strength. I let myself believe, just for a moment, that he's right. That I'm okay.

“Ethan?” I ask against Kaden’s chest.

“In the bedroom. I splinted his fingers the best I could and cleaned his opened wounds. He’s stable.”

I exhale shakily, relief mixing with the residual terror still coursing through my veins.

“I need to check on him. And change out of these clothes.” I pull away, wrapping my arms around myself as I stand on unsteady legs.

Kaden nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “I'll secure the perimeter. Make sure we weren't followed and that every security measure I set up before is working.”

Shivering, I hug myself tighter. It stands to reason that Morelli’s men—or Cassie’s men—would know to come here to get Cassie back. But the hardened resolve in Kaden’s eyes tells me that we’re exactly where he wants us to be. When they come, which they will, it will be on Kaden’s terms. His turf.

Kaden's gaze lingers on me for a moment longer before he turns and strides out into the storm, the door clicking shut behind him.

I make my way up the stairs and down the short hallway, stopping at the doorway to my bedroom. Ethan lies on the fadedquilt with Reaper curled against his side. I smile at the sleek feline, glad she’s safe and that Cassie never actually caught her, then go back to Ethan. His glasses are missing, making him look so much younger.

“Hey,” I say softly, perching on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Ethan turns to the sound of my voice and opens his hazy eyes. “Kaden found opioids. I’m a happy boy.”

A soft laugh escapes me. “I’m glad you get to hang out in the clouds for a while.” I carefully take one of his hands in mine. His skin feels clammy. “Do you forgive me?”

In my attempt to hold back my tears, they leak into my voice when I ask the question.

Ethan's brow furrows, his uninjured hand squeezing mine weakly. “For what?”

I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “For getting you involved in this. For putting you in danger. If I hadn’t listened in and recorded Dawson’s conversation about Oracle, if I’d just minded my own business…”

My voice cracks, and I look away, blinking rapidly. The tears come anyway, sliding down my cheeks in hot, shameful trails.

“Hey, hey...” Ethan tugs on my hand until I meet his gaze again. Even drugged and in pain, his eyes are earnest, full of a steadfast devotion I don't deserve. “You didn't do this to me, Layla. You're my best friend. I'd walk through hell for you.”

A sob escapes me, and I press my forehead to our joined hands. “I think that's exactly where I've led you.”

“Well, you didn't leave me there to burn alone. That's what matters.”

I lift my head, managing a wobbly smile. I let his words wash over me, let myself believe them, if only for a moment. Then I pull back, wiping at my tears. “I should let you rest.”

Ethan nods, his eyelids drooping. “Stay with me? Just until I fall asleep?”

“Of course.”

He’s snoring within seconds. I gently kiss his forehead before quietly grabbing some dry clothes from the dresser and slipping into the bathroom across the hall.

I shut the bathroom door behind me and lean against it heavily, exhaling a shuddering breath. In the harsh light of the bare bulb, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror above the sink.

My hair hangs in limp, wet strands around my face, the once vibrant blond now dull and matted. The bruises and cuts littering my skin stand out in stark contrast, a morbid collage of purples, blues, and angry reds. I look like a watercolor painting gone horribly wrong, everything bleeding together in a grotesque imitation of art.

But the tattoo draws my eye, as it always does. The intricate design wraps around my throat like a noose, black ink against pale skin. I reach up to trace it with trembling fingers, remembering the burn of the needle. I try to remember if Harris was one of the men slaughtered when we escaped, and I can’t.

A shudder runs through me, and I have to grip the sink to keep from collapsing. My knuckles turn white from the force of it, the chipped porcelain biting into my palms.

I force myself to look, to really see the extent of the damage. A particularly nasty gash runs along my jawline, the edges jagged and inflamed. I think I got that one from the serrated edge of a knife.

With shaking fingers, I peel off my wet clothes, wincing as the fabric sticks to the cuts and bruises littering my skin. Each article falls to the floor with a heavy plop, revealing more of my abused body.

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