Hunted

Chapter 18 - Breaking down

PG-13 version. R-rated version can be found in the adult book. :)

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 "Time to wake up now. Come on."

My eyes flung open and I thrashed, trying to get whatever was holding me down to let go, fingernails finding something soft and trying to rip at it. The restraints softened, I thrashed harder, feeling something suddenly smash into my head. My eyes flew open then, as someone swore and the hands tightened.

Hands?

Nick's hands. I'd know them anywhere. They were clenched around my shoulders, I was on the floor, the back of my head aching like I'd struck it somewhere. He had his eyes fixed in mine, blood dripping from one cheek where there was a long red gash, fingers stroking my neck as his palms kept my head securely against the ground. He didn't relax it even with my eyes open, he waited, tense.

My sense of smell returned. I wasn't being hurt and the only smells in the room was Nick- Nick's sweat, his body, his fear, all him. I stared up at him with wild eyes, trapped, afraid, my heart beating hard against my ribcage, aware that he was speaking. It took a few seconds to understand, to somehow let the words in.

"... okay." He was saying, the sound distant, but I heard it. Nick's face was pale. Scratches were down his face and his shoulders. "It's okay. Anne. Snap out of it. You were dreaming."

"I'm awake." I thought. I hoped I was awake. Bloody hell, I hoped I was awake.

Nick blinked and relaxed then, pulling me up, and yanked me into his lap as he sat back. He was breathing hard, sweaty, like he'd been wrestling with a crocodile. "Thought I was going to have to get Clay's help tonight. Here, let me check." He touched the back of my head and when I flinched, he flinched too, withdrawing his fingers. Blood.

Panic flared up as I remembered the dream. "How..."

"You knocked over the bed side table when you fell off the bed and kept finding it again. Gave me a huge fright. What were you dreaming?"

"I … I remembered."

"What? What did you remember?"

I told him. Told him about the fight, how my hip had been broken, about the look on her face when she realised they didn't want her, and about the bar. Seeing him there, and not being able to talk to him. I was crying before I could stop it, and he didn't try to stop me, just sat there, arms keeping me safe. It was like it'd exploded, all the month's worth of pain, and fear, and I couldn't stop it. This wasn't how a survivor acted, maybe, but damnit, I wanted to cry. Screw being hard and emotionless. Emotion was human nature and I wasn't going to let anyone kill that.

Nick didn't move an inch, even when I was snotty and face covered in tears, he stayed there as steady as a rock, keeping me against his chest. He only moved when I was calming down, returning a minute later with his chest cleaned up and with tissues for me, lifting me back onto the bed. I pushed my hand down my pants to feel where the hip was. The scar was more obvious now that I understood how it'd been made.

A rough hand tugged my hand out and his hand slid down to touch it. Pressing against the lumpy skin, the texture that stitches must have left. The stitches I'd done. It was so intimate but there was nothing sexual about it. It was comforting, some how, to have someone else feel it, acknowledge it, as if I needed someone else to confirm that it wasn't just a dream. His fingers pressed along the scar, gently, touching it. There was no 'it was just a dream' from him. He knew I knew the difference.

We lay there, quiet, not sleeping, just trying to get some calm back. I could hear his own heart, it was racing as fast as mine, fighting against his own reaction to what I'd said. I kissed him.