Royally Not Ready(48)

My eyes shoot open so fast that I gasp and come face to face with another human. Unable to register what’s happening, and who it is, I grab them by the shoulders, twist them to the bed, and pin them down so they can’t move.

“Keller,” a female voice calls out. “It’s me, Lilly.”

Her voice cuts through the fog.

I blink several times as the room around me comes into view.

And when I focus on her, on the worried look on her face, I realize what I’m doing.

“Fuck,” I say as I jump off her. “Shit, Lilly, are you okay?” I ask, my heart beating wildly, the wake of my nightmare still haunting the back of my mind.

“Yes,” she answers, sounding out of breath.

I take a seat next to her and move my hand over her arms, examining her. “Fuck, did I hurt you? I didn’t—I didn’t know.” Frantically I push my hand through my hair.

She sits up on my bed and places her hand on my chest, right on top of my heart. “I’m okay, Keller. But are you? I heard you from the other room. You were having a night terror.”

I nod, looking away, but she scoots closer, bumping right next to my side.

“Do you get them often?” she asks, her thumb making soothing strokes over my heart.

“Every now and again,” I answer. “But I’ve never attacked anyone in my sleep.” I turn toward her. “I’m sorry, Lilly. Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?”

“You didn’t.” She takes my hand in hers and smooths it over her arm. “See.” She brings it over to her other arm. “No lumps. No bumps. No cuts.”

Still not convinced, I reach for the lamp on the night table and turn it on, illuminating the blacked-out space of my bedroom. When I turn back to her, I lift her right arm and examine it. On the upper part of her arm is a red spot from where I tightly gripped her. Pain zips through me as I go to her other arm, checking for the same mark. And there it is.

“Fuck, I hurt you.” I back away on the bed as I attempt to process this. It goes against everything I believe in. I’m supposed to protect her, not hurt her.

“Keller, stop. It’ll be red for a second. There won’t even be any bruising. Seriously, I’m fine. I’m more concerned about you, though. Can you just settle down for a second and talk to me?”

I shake my head and rise from the bed. The nightmare, the knowledge that I could cause her pain, that something even worse could have happened, twists and turns into an ugly reality. I grip my hair and pace the room, my pulse erratic as I try to catch my breath.

“Keller, you’re going to have an anxiety attack.” She hops off the bed and stops me, both her hands to my bare chest now. “Look at me. In the eyes. Look at me.”

My gaze falls to hers, and in that moment, staring down at her iridescent eyes, I feel a warmth spread and crash into the frigid chill of my heart. Not sure I would’ve recognized that feeling before tonight, before our time on the roof, but I recognize it now.

Her palm cups my cheek and I find myself leaning in to her touch, leaning in to her strength. “I’m okay, Keller. Do you hear me?”

I swallow hard, as a hint of relief etches through me. “Yes,” I choke out.

“Okay, good. Now”—she takes my hand in hers and brings me back to the bed, where we both take a seat—“we need to check on you. Are you okay?”

Exhaustion hits me all at once as the adrenaline fades away. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “No.”

Her hand smooths over my arm. “Was it about your parents?”

“Yeah,” I answer quietly.

“Enough said.” She scoots in even closer, leaving nothing between us. And I like it, I want her even closer, I want her in my arms. I want . . . I want another hug. “I get those dreams at times, and I realize the need to not talk about it. Do you want to talk about something else?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m good. I should get you back to bed.” I rise from the mattress and hold my hand out to her. To my luck, she takes it, and I walk her through our shared bathroom to her room. I pull back the covers of her bed and help her onto the mattress. When she’s seated, I move the covers over her legs and take a step back.

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I get it, Keller.”

“Okay, well . . . get some sleep.”

“Do you . . .” She bites her bottom lip and then asks, “Do you want to lie down with me?”

Yes.

I want you to continue to stroke my heart.

Stare into your eyes.

Feel your comforting warmth. Get lost in it.

I want to replicate that embrace, but in your bed, our limbs tangled together.

Because . . . because I think I fucking like you, and I have no idea how to deal with those emotions.

“That’s not necessary,” I answer. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Before I do something really stupid, like climb into bed with her, I turn on my heel and go back to my bedroom, where I turn off the light, lie in bed, and stare up at the ceiling.

She’s not supposed to see weakness in me.

She’s not supposed to be scared of me.

She’s not supposed to worry about me.