Page 61 of Wicked Games

They’re loud and full of terror, and even worse than the ones I heard last night. What the fuck is he dreaming about that makes him scream like that?

“Felix?” I shout, my voice rough from sleep.

His scream is cut off by a strangled sob that’s followed by a heartbreaking wail that’s so full of anguish it makes my chest squeeze.

I’m just throwing off the covers when he bolts upright, gasping and choking as he tears at his throat with his hands.

“Felix?”

“Sorry!” he yelps and pulls his hands away from his neck. “Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” I ask stupidly. Obviously he’s not okay, but what else am I supposed to say?

“Fine.” He lays back down. “Fine,” he repeats, sounding anything but fine. “Sorry, go back to sleep.”

I lay back down but don’t close my eyes. Instead, I even out my breathing and wait to see what he does.

He doesn’t move for almost five minutes, then I hear the sheets rustling as he gets out of bed and the soft pad of his footsteps as he walks toward his desk.

Being as silent as possible, I slip out of bed.

Felix is in front of his bookshelf, his hollowed-out book open on his desk. I watch as he pulls a bottle out of it and holds it up to the light.

I found his hiding spot after he left the room today and counted his pills. He has quite the collection of sleep aids, antidepressants, and painkillers, but I’m guessing he’s looking for his Ambien.

He’s so intent on his search that he either doesn’t hear me approach or he’s ignoring me.

I pause a few feet away and wait to see what he does.

He puts the bottle back into the book and pulls out another. He squints at the label, then lets out a loud sigh of what sounds like relief.

“You don’t need those.”

He jumps. “Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.” I step closer to him.

“Yes, I do,” he repeats. “I can’t sleep without them.”

“You can.”

He shakes his head and squeezes the bottle so tight the plastic squeaks against his skin. “No, I can’t. Not anymore.”

“You don’t need them.”

He turns those big, liquid eyes on me, and my stomach seizes. Jesus, he looks young and so damn broken.

“Put them away and get into bed.”

He glances between me and his bed but doesn’t move.

Trying a different tactic, I hold out my hand.

He looks at it for a few beats, then back at me and chews on his bottom lip.

“Give them to me.”

He swallows, his throat bobbing gently in the moonlight, then slowly hands me the bottle.

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