Page 27 of Winning Brynn

I don’t know what I was expecting to find when I busted my way in here, but it sure as fuck wasn’t her writhing around on the bed, her legs kicking at some invisible force as tears stream down her face.

She’s still sleeping, yet she’s fighting with a power I’ve only seen in a boxing ring.

I don’t think.

I just act on instinct.

Rushing to the bed, I climb in beside her and pull her shaking, sobbing body into my lap, where I hold her to my chest the way I do with Salem when she’s frightened.

But the feel of my arms around her only makes her fight harder. She strikes out, clipping me across the jaw with a punch so strong it surprises me, yet I don’t release her.

I keep my hold on her, despite how misguided the decision may be. Because seeing her so vulnerable, so terrified and helpless, is affecting me in ways I never thought she’d be able to.

The woman may drive me to the very brink of insanity, but right now…she’s breaking my fucking heart.

"Shh, you're okay, darling,” I whisper, stroking the softness of her hair.

Her eyelids fly open, her gaze startled and agitated, mine soft and concerned. Whipping her head from side to side, she assesses the room for—I assume—signs of danger. Finding none, her body relaxes into my arms.

"Christ," she murmurs, wiping her bleary eyes with two fists.

"You okay?" I ask, all too aware of my hands on her body now that the drama of the moment has dwindled.

"Yeah." She sounds confused and rubs her eyes again. "I, um…I was in a beauty pageant with Celine Dion. We were the final two, but I beat her when I sang 'My Heart Will Go On,' which is weird, right? Because that's her song. But I guess the judges thought my rendition was better, because they gave me the crown, but poor Celine was so distraught at the loss that she stabbed me to near-death with a parsnip."

I laugh.

I really try not to, because she looks so serious as she tells me this, so traumatized from the nightmare, but the sound bubbles out anyway, escaping into the short distance between us and landing like an atomic bomb.

Her face takes on a thunderous expression, brows pulling low across her eyes that are firing daggers at me so clearly I can see them in the dark. "Why are you laughing?"

"Sorry." I force my features to match her solemness. "You're right. It's not funny.”

"No, it's not." She nods. "It was terrifying."

"I imagine it was."

Examining me for a sign that I'm being insincere, her gaze tracks a searing pathway over my face before running down the length of my arm to my hand that is cupping her waist.

"I'm in your lap." It isn't phrased as a question, more an observation. An astute one, I'll give her that. Though, I'd argue she's stating the obvious.

I clear my throat then gruff out my reply. "It appears that way."

She blinks. "Why?"

Well, now that I know her nightmare was about Celine Dion weaponizing root vegetables, I'm not so sure.

"Um, you were screaming?" I don't know why I ask it as a question, but I'm all of a sudden self-conscious, and my palms are sweating, and I'm developing a minor headache, and she isstillsitting in my lap. "I didn't know what else to do."

"My brother will have your balls if he finds out."

The mention of Alex's absurd level of protectiveness over her has me rolling my eyes. "Your brother needs therapy."

She snorts a laugh. "Try telling him that."

"Okay," I say because I can't think of anything else. I can't think of anything, really, not when I'm trying so hard to ignore how perfect her body feels in my arms, how large my hand feels around her waist, how soft and warm her skin is against mine.

Her gaze dips to my chest, her forehead creasing. "You're not wearing a shirt."

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