Page 96 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

I’m already walking quietly to the edge of his bed, creeping onto the mattress in slow motion, gentle so he doesn’t feel it shift beneath my weight. The silk sheets he insisted on melt against my touch.

I crawl until I’m propped up next to him, my hand holding my head up as my elbow digs into the plush pillow. I’m far enough away that we aren’t touching but close enough that my fingers are able to walk along the toned plane of his chest.

When he’s sleeping like this, he looks just like the boy I met all those years ago, just with harder features. I savor this moment because who knows who he’ll be when he wakes up? Who knows what kind of damage Henry did to him in that prison or what twisted, sick fantasy he planted into his head?

I know May told me his father had crushed all the soft things about him long ago. But I don’t think that’s true. I think he just became an expert at hiding it.

He is soft.

In ways you wouldn’t expect.

He’s soft in the mornings, just before he’s had his coffee and his gaze is still sleepy. That’s when he picks out which mugs we’re drinking from that day, and somehow, he always makes sure they go together. Soft when he cooks us dinner, and even more so when he’s annotating my books.

He couldn’t be anything but that.

Not when the only thing he’s ever loved is the sound black and white keys make.

There is nothing else he could possibly be.

Not when the wordpianoin Italian translates to meansoft.

He jerks beneath my touch, and I’m quick to pull back from him, holding my breath as he turns his head, eyes squinting tight. The peaceful slumber he was enjoying disappears, and I can see the physical shift in his face.

Nightmare.

He’s having a nightmare.

I know that you need to let people wake up organically from night terrors; I’ve heard about it for years—I know that. But for some reason, my first instinct is to reach out and touch the side of his face. It’s a knee-jerk reaction to try to soothe whatever pain he’s facing in his mind.

That was a mistake. My mistake, not his.

That’s why I can’t blame him for the way he wakes up. His eyes fly open, bleary and glazed over, still trapped in the dream. I can’t blame him for the way he flips his body, smothering me beneath him. I can’t even blame him when I feel the knife pressed against my neck.

He hovers above me, a dangerous look on his features, and I can tell he isn’t fully aware of his actions. My pulse spikes, and I widen my eyes as the knife digs into the curves of my throat.

“Thatch, it’s me. It’s only a dream,” I breathe, trying to reach up and touch him, but his knees are pressed against my wrists. “Angel, look at me. It’s me, it’s Lyra.”

I think he might actually kill me for a solid two minutes until the fog of his dream fades away and his mind catches up with his body. The pressure of the blade softens, and he blinks.

“Lyra?” he croaks, speaking around gravel in his throat.

Sadness washes over his features. I’ve never seen such a candid emotion flash across his face before. As if the horror in his dream had dropped his shield completely.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, rolling his body off mine. “I’m so sorry.”

I watch as he pushes himself to the edge of the bed, burying his head into his hands, his shoulders tensed up. My heart aches for him, knowing I can’t take away whatever it is that is hurting him.

Taking a chance, I crawl across the bed, sitting on my knees behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist. I rest my chin on his shoulder, nudging his head with my own.

“It’s okay. It was just a dream,” I reassure him, knowing the last time we had this conversation, he was adamant he didn’t have them.

“They’re my memories.”

“What?”

“My nightmares. They’re my childhood memories,” he admits, his chest moving as he sighs. “I think I repressed them, and the only way I could recall them was when I slept. That’s why I didn’t want to go see Henry. I knew I’d remember it.”

I listen to him talk about visiting his father. How he remembered all those women and all the ways he was forced to clean up after. My chest burns as he talks about watching his mother die, having to help Henry bury her afterwards.

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