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Kiva was burning.

Falling.

Drowning.

Water. So much water. She couldn’t breathe.

Her skin was on fire. It burned.It burned.

Down she fell, the wind ripping her apart, the cold shredding her skin.

Thethwackof a whip. A quiet, masculine moan.

Blood flowing into a drain.

Darkness — so much darkness.

She couldn’t breathe.

SHE COULDN’T BREA —

“Wakeup!”

Kiva gasped and shot up in bed to find a dark outline of a man hovering over her, gripping her shoulders. She shrieked and threw her fists at his naked chest, thrashing wildly to get free. He made anoomphsound but only held on to her tighter, trapping her arms. She opened her mouth to shriek again, but then —

“Kiva!Kiva!It’s me!”

Jaren’s voice finally penetrated, causing her to freeze.

“It was just a nightmare,” he said, holding her firmly against his warm, strong body. “You’re safe. I’m here.” He stroked her sweaty hair away from her face and repeated, “I’m here.”

“J-J-Jaren?” Kiva stuttered around her frantic, panting breaths. The room was dark, barely enough moonlight drifting in to make out his concerned features.

“I’ve got you,” he told her, rubbing soothing patterns on her back.

Kiva was quaking so badly that she cuddled into Jaren’s bare torso and burrowed her face in the crook of his neck, forgetting that she should be pushing him away and instead clinging to him like a child.

From the doorway to her bedroom came Tipp’s hushed voice. “Is she a-all right?”

“She’ll be fine,” Jaren answered quietly. “You did the right thing, coming to get me. Why don’t you go and wake Ori, have a sneaky hot cocoa, then go back to sleep. You can talk to her in the morning.”

Kiva sensed Tipp’s hesitation, but then she heard the door shut as he left her room.

Still clinging to Jaren, Kiva couldn’t bring herself to let go, her body continuing to tremble. She didn’t even care that they were alone, tangled together on her bed, with him only half dressed. All she knew was that she felt safe in his arms. They were all that was holding her together.

Hewas all that was holding her together.

“I have them, too, you know,” Jaren whispered, his fingers combing through her hair. “The dreams. Ever since Zalindov.”

She burrowed deeper into him, recalling the sounds of distress she’d heard muted through the walls at the winter palace.

Against his neck she asked, barely a breath of sound, “What do you dream about?”

She knew she should put some distance between them.

But she didn’t move.

Just this once, she told herself.