Page 44 of What Remains

“Tell me you never plan to leave me again.”

I lean forward, dropping my forehead to hers, and in a strained voice I admit, “You and I both know I was never gone for good.” I close my eyes and give in to the only truth I know deep in my gut. “I was always coming back to you.”

CHAPTER 14

Gwen

I’m not sure how long I’ve been curled up on the couch, tucked under a blanket with my hands T-rexed under my chin like that’s going to coax sleep into coming. But every time I shut my eyes, I end up back in that room. Not with the men, but with her. That woman’s face, her smug certainty, the way she knew exactly what stealing my rig meant.

The bomb might’ve been fake. What she can do with access to my programs? Terrifyingly real.

I shift for the hundredth time and freeze, not wanting to worry Easton. He’s already carrying too much. So I try to hold still. To bind myself to something that isn’t in this room.

Maybe I can if-things-were-different my way into a world where we’re on a team vacation. Salt in the air, the scent of coconut sunscreen, and the distant crash of waves just close enough to hear. My little sister building a sandcastle with Dad and Natasha. And as for Easton, well . . .

His words from upstairs slip through my mind, managing to put me at ease more than my “fakecation” mirage.

I was always coming back to you.

Latching on to that line, I replay it over and over again, and my mind finally softens, the chaos swirling around now like background noise.

My limbs go heavy, then my thoughts, like someone is dimming light switches one by one in my mind.

I finally pass out, but as I do, I don’t go to that beach. I’m somewhere dark, and that darkness swallows me whole.

I’m running in place, and my feet slam into nothing. No floor or ground. Just an endless treadmill of terror I can’t escape. My lips are sealed shut, so I can’t cry out for help.

Easton sees me, but he can only reach out, and the gap grows between us until⁠—

“Gwen, hey, you’re okay. Just a dream.” Easton’s voice is low and urgent, and when I blink awake, it’s like surfacing from being underwater.

My chest clinches tight, and my ribs squeeze inward like an invisible fist closing around me as I try to slow my wild breathing.

Why in the world is Easton on the floor by the couch, his hands wrapped around my wrists?

Heat flashes up the back of my neck, and embarrassment mixed with fear becomes messy and indistinguishable. “What happened?”

“Nightmare.” His grip is steady but cautious, like he’s not sure whether he needs to keep restraining me or go back to reassuring me everything is fine. Maybe both.

He slowly lowers my arms, like he’s only letting go when he’s sure I’m back in my body and out of that hellhole I now remember being in. Where demons were chasing me in my sleep. Only slightly less frightening than real flesh-and-blood men who like to hurt women for sport.

He pushes to his feet to stand, and panic flares inside me. I grab his hand. “Can you just sit with me for a second?”

He stares at our linked hands, and there’s a flicker of hesitation there. Duty versus something else. Something I’m pretty sure I witnessed him struggling with in the past, but I refused to notice before.

His shoulders slant in surrender, and he tosses the blanket aside and sits. I have two choices: crawl onto his lap, which has become my new favorite grounding mechanism, or attempt to make jokes in hopes the tried-and-true defense mechanism can help me calm down and smile.

Right now, option two feels like someone is asking me to code without music in my ears—damn near impossible.

With reality officially slamming into me, I make up my mind: neither. I don’t want his legs to go numb if I sit on his lap. But I’m craving some connection. So, instead, I lean my head against his shoulder. He’s solid beneath my cheek, warm through the cotton of his shirt.

He releases my hand only long enough to hook his arm under my legs, pulling them over to rest on his. His palm settles warm and heavy across my thighs like an anchor, a promise I didn’t ask for but needed.

“Thank you,” I whisper as the wall clock ticks its steady rhythm, loud enough to feel like the sound is coming from inside my skull.

“Of course.”

“At least my hearing is back to normal,” I share as if he’s attuned to my inner thoughts.