Page 114 of Wicked Games

“Really?” He sounds surprised.

“Yup. You’ve imprinted on them. Just don’t do anything to betray their trust. You don’t want to see what they do to people who double-cross them.”

“Is it worse than beating a guy bloody and cutting off his finger?”

“Way worse.”

“Noted.” He nuzzles his cheek against my chest again. “I still feel weird.”

“Because you’re still tripping balls.”

“Balls.” He snickers and rubs his cheek against my pec.

“Why did you start taking the pills?” I ask. I’ve been wondering since I found him practically comatose in his bed, and not knowing is driving me crazy. “After what happened in the pool.”

“To stop the nightmares,” he mumbles.

“But why did the nightmares start?” I press.

I know the only reason he’s being so talkative right now is because he’s high on molly, but I don’t feel bad for trying to get answers out of him when he’s not fully in his right mind.

Something triggered them, and I need to know what. If this is the only way he’ll tell me, then so be it.

“I lost my safe place.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Safe place?”

He doesn’t answer.

“What does that mean?” I ask. “Losing your safe place started your nightmares?”

“The nightmares didn’t start then. That’s just when I stopped being able to deal with them.”

I wait to see if he’ll elaborate. As much as I want to demand he tell me everything, pushing will just make him keep talking in code until he shuts down. Then I won’t get any answers.

“The pool is—was—my safe place,” he finally continues. “Always has been. That’s why I was swimming so late.” He pauses long enough to draw in a shaky breath. “I’d go to the pool and do laps until I was so exhausted I could fall asleep without the pills. If I was tired enough, I wouldn’t dream, so no nightmares. Then I was attacked, and I lost my only outlet. The nightmares came back, and I tried to go swimming again to deal with them, but I couldn’t.”

His breathing hitches, and he goes tense against me.

Turning into him, I wrap both arms around his lean frame and hold him closer. I can feel the tension radiating off him, and I want to wrap him up and kill whoever gave him those nightmares in the first place.

“I had a panic attack.” He snuggles into me. “I tried to push through it, but I couldn’t. I still can’t. Even the thought of getting back in the water is too much.”

“What are they about?” I ask softly.

“No clue. They’re weird. I don’t actually remember what I dream about. I only remember how I feel just before I wake up. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like being terrified while your heart is breaking. Like overwhelming fear mixed with the worst sorrow you’ve ever felt.”

“How long have you had them?”

“Since I was a kid. They don’t happen all the time. Just when shit gets bad or when I’m dealing with something big.”

“Do you know why they started?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and I wait to see if he’ll tell me.

“I saw my nanny die when I was ten.”

I barely cover up my shock. What the fuck? How did I not know that?

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