Page 45 of Craving Their Omega

“Stop it,” I plead silently, tears streaming down my face. “Stop it, please.”

“Stop it,” a voice mocks, and I guess me not being able to hear myself doesn’t stop them from hearing me. “Listen to yourself, you idiot.”

“Please,” I beg. “Please, please, please. Just leave me alone.”

The laughter gets so loud it hurts my ears. So loud it starts to feel like physical blows against my skin. I tuck myself into an even smaller ball, trying to protect myself, trying to do what little I can, and then?—

And then I wake up with a gasp.

My muscles ache from being bunched up with tension, and I’m curled into the fetal position under the covers. I uncurl myself stiffly and sit up, chest heaving as I take desperate gulps of air.

A shadow at the foot of the bed makes me jump and flinch back, but my eyes adjust to the dim light of my bedroom enough to recognize that it’s Tristan standing there.

“What—” I start to ask, but my voice comes out raspy.

He comes around to the side of the bed, standing close. “You were having a nightmare,” he says.

He’s so close now, his body a line of warmth and solid strength. His scent eases through the room, and it’s so familiar at this point that it feels almost like safety.

Without really thinking about it, I reach out, still disoriented from the nightmare and waking up to him hear. For all I know, this could be another dream. Even if it’s not, my body instinctively wants comfort, wants to move toward something or someone that could keep me safe from the pain I was in before.

So my arms end up around Tristan’s waist, and I cling to him, burying my face against his stomach. His skin is warm from sleep, and it chases away some of the chill I can still feel, making it easier to relax.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from him, and I feel it as it moves through his body. For the first few seconds he doesn’t move, but then gradually, his arms come up and his hands settle on my shoulders.

It’s a stiff sort of hold, and it’s clear that he’s not the most comfortable or experienced with this. But he’s still here. He’s not pushing me away.

I’m willing to take what I can get at this point, and I hold on to him until my body stops trembling and my head clears a little.

Of course, coming back to myself makes it easier to realize that this is weird. No two ways about it.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tristan touch anyone, besides when we kissed at our wedding, and here I am clinging to him like a scared kid with their favorite stuffed animal in the middle of the night.

My cheeks heat with embarrassment, and I pull away awkwardly, trying to spare him from having to deal with this anymore. He’s made it pretty clear that he’s just tolerating thisarrangement, and just tolerating me because of it. The least I can do is not make it more uncomfortable for him.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, biting my lip. “And… thank you. For being here. I’m all right now.” It’s not quite the truth, but close enough. My heartrate is still faster than it should be, and I have the lingering fear that if I close my eyes to sleep again, I’ll be back in that place, listening to those voices tell me all the worst things about myself again.

But that’s not Tristan’s problem.

He’s still standing there, his eyes flickering over my face like he’s trying to suss out if I’m being honest or not.

“Really,” I say. “I’ll be okay. You don’t have to stick around.”

After one last look, Tristan nods his head and slips out of my bedroom, leaving me alone.

Even though he said a grand total of about five words while he was in here, it seems quieter in the room with him gone. After the loud nightmare I had, I would have thought that the quiet would help, but instead my brain is just filling the silence with memories of the nightmare.

I lie back down in bed and try to get comfortable, but it’s hard. Whenever I close my eyes, it feels like I’m seeing that room I was trapped in again. Endless walls and nowhere to go. No matter how hard I try to force myself to remember that I’m not trapped, it doesn’t really work. The feelings of that nightmare, the way it made me feel, all of that is connected to a time in my life that I’ve tried so hard to forget.

But apparently it’s always going to be with me, sneaking up on me to make my dreams terrible even now.

I turn over onto my back, staring at the ceiling. This house is about as far from being trapped as I could get, as far from my shitty apartment as I could get, and it’s still not enough. No amount of staring at the windows and trying to remind myself that it’s okay is helping, and I’m left feeling restlessand frustrated, unable to sleep or shake the fear the nightmare caused in me.

Finally, I gather up a couple of pillows and the comforter from my bed and slip down the hall to where Tristan’s room is.

I don’t give myself time to doubt or worry that this is a stupid idea. I just knock on his door, shifting from foot to foot in the hallway.

His voice is gruff, but soft when he says, “Come in,” and I push the door open to step inside.

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