Page 62 of Wilt

With shaking fingers, I listen. For a moment, I think he’s going to punish me, even though nothing in his demeanor hints at that. Then again, he does what he wants. Yes, my pulse starts to flutter at the idea.

All he does, though, is dump his tie on the desk and covers me in his jacket, sliding my arms through and guiding it up over my shoulders. Immediately, I’m engulfed in his warmth and his scent. It’s heady, and it soothes my frazzled nerves. He pulls it around me and does up the button.

I stare at him, ready for the other shoe to drop.

Nikolai shrugs and picks up our drinks, holding mine out. “You looked cold. Besides, I’d rather go to the living room where it’s more comfortable. I’ve had a hell of a day.”

“Oh, are—are you alright?”

“Do you care?” He shakes his head. “Don’t answer that.”

“I—” He’s right. I’m not answering that. I care on some strange level and of course, I care because I don’t want him to take it out on me. Only I don’t think he will. Punish, yes, and I’m still ashamed to say a part of me wants his punishment, but take something out on me? No.

“Come on.” He turns, heading out, not looking back, and I slide one hand into the pocket of his jacket, hurrying after him.

When we’re in the living room, which is soft and warm, he grabs the bottle from the bar and sets it on the coffee table. The room is definitely made for comfort and relaxation, even though, with Nikolai there, in my blood, that’s hard to do. He shuffles me to sit on one of the comfy leather couches, and I can’t help but relax just slightly into it.

“Why couldn’t you sleep, Rosalind?”

I turn my glass in my hands, suddenly not sure I want to go there with him. I haven’t told anyone about my nightmares, and there are long periods where I forget I even have them. Then, when I do finally have one, they all tumble back.

“It’s just… sometimes, it’s hard to sleep.”

He nods, giving me a look like I need to elaborate. “So you said.”

“Why did you give me your jacket?”

He half smiles and takes a swallow of his drink. “As I said, you looked cold. Besides, if you’re going to take to running around at night, I don’t want you giving someone an eyeful.” Nikolai pauses. “Unless it’s for me.” His eyes narrow, cutting to me. “I’ll bring you your slip tomorrow. Just be ready to take it off when I want.”

I nod.

“Now, tell me what the fuck is going on.” His tone is mild, lacking sting, and somehow, I shift on the sofa, moving a little closer to him, like he can protect me from the monsters in the dark.

Maybe he can.

Maybe it takes a monster to save you from the other monsters.

Maybe the bourbon’s already hit my veins.

I don’t know why, but I start to talk. Sure, he won’t let me go without getting answers to his questions, but that’s not why I do it.

“Nightmare.” I finish my drink and he tops it up, but I don’t take another sip. Not yet. “I have them a lot.”

Nikolai doesn’t speak, just nods. There’s a leisurely weight to the air, like I can unspool at my own pace.

“I…” I breathe out. “I’ve always had them. Sometimes a lot, sometimes occasionally, and there are stretches of time where I don’t have any. When I do, though, that’s when they all come back. Some of it is when I’ve been in one place too long. I get edgy. Anxious.”

He doesn’t respond, but I know he’s listening, and I shift a tiny bit closer again. He shifts, not away, not toward me, but like he knows where my brain is going. Still, he doesn’t say anything, and I take a deep breath.

“In my nightmares, I’m little, with Mom. I can see it, clear as anything. Mom’s eye is black, swollen; her cheek, too. Her lip is split, and she has blood splattered on her shirt. Someone…” My voice grows strangled, even as I try to keep it cool and low. I pause, taking another deep swallow of my drink, sputtering at the strength. Nikolai doesn’t move, just sits silently waiting for me to continue.

“Like someone beat her up. We’re hiding behind a dumpster, and it’s loud, with lots of horrible words I can’t understand ringing around us. All I can understand is the emotion, the desperation, the anger.” I look at him. “I worry it’s not a nightmare, Nikolai.”

He just nods, not moving to soothe or otherwise comfort me in any way. “Is it the same one each time?”

I shake my head. “No, but the theme is always the same. It all feels… familiar, like a memory. I’m scared they actually happened, in a past I can’t remember.”

Nikolai watches me, those dark eyes soft, contemplative, almost like there’s a window open so I can peek in. While there’s sympathy, his eyes are also bleak, no surprise or shock there, just understanding. He doesn’t speak, only nods.

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