Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(51)

“Enough secrets tonight,” he murmurs. My last thought is of the heat of his skin against my back and the fact that it looks like I still have tomorrow with him. Then I disappear.

*

I open my eyes with a gasp. Aiden’s bedroom is dark except for the moonlight streaming through the glass wall. There is a race running in my brain. My skin is still tingling with static like remnants of a distant storm. I panic that I had another nightmare but no. The only thoughts in my head are Aiden’s whispered secrets. If he never kisses on the mouth, he must like me. But before I levitate off the bed, another secret quashes it: it’s dangerous to want him. Why?

I look at Aiden to calm the racing thoughts. His face is relaxed, his hair a mess of my doing. Despite the power he wields when he is awake, he looks vulnerable. But the tension of his shoulders never releases him even in sleep. I have an urge to hold him. I reach out to caress his cheek. His body heat warms my fingers and I press them gently on his stubble.

It’s instant. He bolts upright, his hand gripping my wrist. His frame begins to shudder. His head hangs on his chest as though someone is holding it down, and his spine is petrified. His shoulders and biceps strain like he is trying to break through chains. His neck jerks side to side as though on a noose or tight collar. His rib cage expands. A menacing sound starts building in his chest and the bed begins to shake from his tremors. His fingers dig into my flesh.

“Aiden!” I gasp in terror.

His head whips up and whirls to me. In the darkness, I cannot see his eyes but I feel his hot breath on my face. His breathing is harsh, wounded. His grip on my wrist relaxes a fraction, and his head jerks to the side as though repelling an invisible touch. Or as though a force is trying to rip him apart or choke him. My heart is pounding but in this moment, I understand my own fear. It’s not for me. It’s for him.

“Aiden,” I whisper, wanting to touch him but afraid of making it worse. Then I remember the way he soothed me yesterday. “You’re okay. It’s not real. Wake up. You’re safe.”

The tremors start slowing down but his head jerks away again. I have a mad image of the sinister force trying to tear him away from me.

I can’t let it have any part of him. “Aiden, please, it’s me, Isa—umm—Elisa. Elisa Snow.”

He gasps like he is emerging from water. Blindingly fast, he pulls away and turns on the bedside lamp. His eyes are wild, almost midnight blue. His hands hover over my face.

“Elisa? Jesus! Did I hurt you? Did I hurt you?” he demands frantically.

“No, not at all. See? I’m okay.” I raise my hands so he can see. His eyes scan my arms, my torso, my face, my eyes.

“It was just a bad dream,” I assure him though I know bad dreams and I have never seen something like this. “Do you want some water? Some fresh air?”

I scoot close to him. I want to hold him but instinctively I know that he will not want arms around him right now. So I just put both my hands on his face and kiss his scar.

“Shh,” I whisper. “It’s over. It’s over.” But as I say the words, it occurs to me: is it really over for him? Whatever this evil is, with his memory, can he ever escape it? “Aiden, will you tell me what’s wrong? Please? I want to help.”

Instantly, his eyes harden. A jolt of fury strikes there. He drops my hands from his face.

“Excuse me a moment,” he says formally, and before I can blink, he bolts up and blows out of the room.

I stare after him, trying to calm my breathing. My lungs were doing fine until now—for him. But at the sight of the shut bedroom door, they start shuddering. I breathe in and out, but oxygen is not working. I amble to the restroom and drink some water, trying to think. What happened to him to cause this? Because if there is one thing I know like I know the periodic table it is that he has had this dream before. That this is a part of him.

I hear the bedroom door open so I sprint out of the restroom. He is dressed in the same clothes as today, probably finding them on the kitchen floor from our time of happy secrets. I walk to him and take his hand.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you.” Same polite voice.

“I am so, so sorry.”

His jaw locks and he closes his eyes. “Why are you apologizing, Elisa?”

“Because I awoke you. I only wanted to touch your face,” I mumble, caressing his stubble.

He guides me to the bed. His eyes are still closed. I don’t know if he is imagining something or repelling it.

“Look at me,” I plead.

He opens his eyes. They are controlled now, lighter but frozen solid. “Elisa, you didn’t do anything wrong. Trust me. This has nothing to do with you. The only thing I regret is that I frightened you. I’m very sorry. Now go to bed. I’ll be back in a while.”

Back in a while? No! I don’t want him to be alone and revisit whatever terrors he already must see with perfect clarity. I clutch his shirt collar and bring him closer.

“Stay with me. We can go to the Rose Garden if you want? Or talk? Or just go for a stroll? Or make love? Just…just stay.”

He pries my fingers from his shirt, pinching my chin. “Go to sleep, Elisa.”

When I don’t let go of his collar, he lowers his head until our foreheads almost touch and closes his eyes.

“Please!” he says in a low voice.