Page 76

M y eyes snap open with a jolt, heart pounding as the vestiges of yet another nightmare cling to the edges of my consciousness like cobwebs. Groaning softly, I shift against the firm warmth of Sid’s thigh where it’s been serving as my makeshift pillow—blearily taking in the shadowy silhouettes surrounding us.

Christ, we must’ve all passed out together in the living room at some point after… well, indulging in Rhys’ ‘remedies’ to numb this incessant torment weighing on all our minds. Carefully lifting my head from Sid’s abdomen, I squint across the dimly lit space to find Rhys slumped bonelessly in the armchair opposite, his features slack and serene in a way I’ve seldom witnessed before.

Huh… it’s strangely calming seeing that typically stoic mask stripped away, all those pensive furrows and hard angles relaxed into something more innocuous as he sleeps. In repose like this, there’s almost a vulnerability bleeding through—something disarmingly gentle lurking beneath all those gruff affectations and cutting barbs he’s so skilled at wielding.

My surveying gaze drifts lower to find a rumpled blanket carefully draped over my lower half, cocooning me in a swathe of soft fleece despite the relative warmth of the heating system. I can’t quite stifle my incredulous huff, features tugging into the ghost of a fond smile as I realise it must’ve been Rhys ensuring I remained comfortable before succumbing to his own exhaustion.

With attempted gentleness, I carefully untangle my arms from where they’ve become intertwined with Sid’s legs, making sure not to disturb my friend’s slumber as I slip free of the blanket’s embrace. Leaving it pooled over her, I ease myself off the loveseat without a sound, padding barefoot across the worn hardwood to approach Rhys’ chair.

I hover there for several heartbeats, observing the subtle rise and fall of his chest with each deep, even breath—lashes fanning in sharp contrast against those finely sculpted cheekbones. There’s something almost boyish about his features when stripped of all the usual tension and simmering intensity. A fragile innocence that the harsh realities of our existence have undoubtedly eroded far too soon.

On an impulse I can’t fully articulate, I find myself reaching out to lightly jostle his shoulder, hoping to stir him to some semblance of wakefulness. His eyes instantly snap open with a sharpness that has my breath catching in my chest—pupils constricting to pinpricks as they track my movements with the hypervigilance of a predator scenting danger on the air.

For several tense seconds, I’m met with only that hollow, flinty stare as the muscles along Rhys’ jaw cord and flex, jaw clenching hard enough I swear I can hear the creak of bone. Just as that crystalline focus teeters on the precipice of something darker, something instinctual and savage in those bottle-green irises, recognition flickers through the haze.

His next exhalation leaves his lungs in a harsh gust, features relaxing incrementally from their previous taut mask.

“Alright, love?” Tone still rough with the vestiges of slumber, his dark brows furrow in mild confusion as he regards me.

Shite… I hadn’t exactly thought this far ahead. The restless energy thrumming through my limbs has finally woken me from my latest bout of fitful sleep, but now what? I swallow hard against the sudden knot of apprehension lodged in my throat, teeth worrying my bottom lip as I consider how best to articulate the gnawing ache currently hollowing out my chest.

“I can’t sleep,” I finally murmur with a brittle sort of resignation, unable to meet that piercing stare head-on. “Just… bad dreams. Over and over again. I can’t…”

The words trail off into a faint, wounded noise as the yawning chasm of hopelessness I’ve been so desperately trying to avoid comes rushing in like a tidal wave. My vision blurs with the first telltale sting of tears, throat constricting with the weight of grief and terror constantly lurking beneath the surface these days—a hairsbreadth from erupting if I dare let down my guard.

Maybe this had been a mistake, rousing the fiercely loyal protector when I’m strung so perilously tight between these ever-shifting extremes. I should turn away before inflicting these fragilities upon someone else… before unfairly burdening them with the uglier truths chiselled into my psyche over a lifetime of trauma. Better to retreat and suffer in silence as I’ve grown so bloody accustomed to.

What would Arius think of me if he saw how weak I really am inside?

Before I can fully retreat into myself, Rhys is suddenly rising from his chair in one fluid, graceful motion. His gaze never wavers from mine as he closes the scant centimetres of distance separating us, impossibly tall frame looming over my slight build in a way that should feel undeniably intimidating and yet…

There’s no threat simmering in his irises, no razor’s edge lurking in the hard line of his jaw or the flex of his arms—only an understated gentleness that’s somehow more disarming than any aggressive posturing could ever be.

Rhys doesn’t utter a single word. He simply reaches out, palm settling with a delicate insistence against the dip of my spine before guiding me to turn, angling my steps through the maze of furniture cluttering the common area.

A faint crease forms between my brows as I cast him a sidelong look, my own voice seeming to have deserted me somewhere between his rise from that chair and this steady propulsion forward. “What are you—?”

“What any of us would do for you, love,” he rumbles, cutting off the question in that deep, gravel-rough burr. “Giving you a warm, masculine presence to latch onto, let you feel safe for a few hours. So you can sleep proper.”

The words cleave straight through my mental fog like a scythe, my chest constricting around a strangled exhalation. He’s right, of course—these men have become the closest thing to stability and safety I’ve known for longer than I can rightly recall. But it’s still so utterly jarring to have those needs anticipated, to have such a selfless gesture instinctively extended without my even having to voice it.

I’ve grown so accustomed to cloaking my fragility beneath layers of bravado, shrouding those frayed edges of vulnerability from prying eyes. Having someone so innately attuned to the nuances of my psyche, able to see straight through every hastily erected barrier, is somehow both terrifying and unutterably soothing in the same breath.

Before I can properly process the riot of conflicting emotions, Rhys is guiding me over the threshold into his bedroom—the heavy oak door swinging wide to reveal a shadowy, intimate sanctum cloaked in tranquil stillness. My gaze is immediately drawn to the enormous bed centered along the far wall, a plush oasis piled high with rumpled duvets and pillows in complete disarray.

I’m not certain what I’d been anticipating—a sterile space devoid of any personalizing touches, perhaps. This haphazard cocoon of softness, warm neutral tones and inviting textures seems a stark juxtaposition to Rhys’ meticulously crafted exterior, a tantalising glimpse at whatever authentic warmth he keeps so fiercely guarded.

There’s no time to linger on the observation before he’s steering me towards the mattress, gaze flickering sidelong as he murmurs, “Strip down to whatever makes you feel comfortable, yeh?”

The words send a frisson of something indefinable skittering along my nape, a spark of trepidation flaring despite the utter mundanity of the request. It’s not as if Rhys—or any of the blokes, for that matter—hasn’t witnessed the naked truth of my body countless times before. My battered flesh has never been afforded the luxury of modesty amongst this band of brothers.

And yet… peeling myself bare in this dimly lit sanctuary somehow feels different. More charged and illicit, like shucking away those final layers will leave me vulnerable in an entirely unprecedented way. I swallow hard against the knot of apprehension swelling in my throat, ignoring the way my fingers have begun to tremble faintly.

With a shuddering inhalation, I force my muscles to unlock until I’m able to bend my joints and peel away each shred of fabric shrouding my nudity. The clothes pool in an unceremonious heap at my feet, leaving me standing stark and bare before Rhys’ assessing gaze—the full expanse of my scars on lurid display beneath the slatted predawn twilight filtering through the window.

There’s no heat simmering in those emerald irises, no prurient sweep of his stare roving across the exposed curves and valleys of my anatomy. Only that same steadfast intensity fixated on my face as I hesitate a hairsbreadth longer before slinking beneath the rumpled bedding in a gingerly slither.

The luxurious sheets are deliciously cool against my clammy skin, a stark contrast to the scorching flush blazing across my cheeks and chest. I instinctively curl inwards, hugging a pillow to my abdomen as I bury my face into the plush mound of another.

In my periphery, I watch as Rhys methodically strips out of his rumpled tee and joggers, swapping into a pair of loose gym shorts slung indecently low across those knife-edged hipbones. His powerful thighs cord as he walks to the bed, pausing beside the edge for a suspended moment.

Then the duvet is being peeled back and Rhys is sliding in behind me—the solid wall of his torso radiating enough body heat to sear my flesh. My breath stutters in my lungs as one of those brazier arms settles with infinite tenderness against the dip of my waist, the possessive weight comforting.

He doesn’t make any overt attempt to pull me backwards into the cradle of his embrace, to tether me in place against that unrelenting strength. The light caress of his palm skimming along my ribcage is simply there—present and reassuring but not stifling or cloying. An immutable force existing solely for my benefit should I choose to seek its shelter… or reject it entirely.

With a shuddering exhalation, I allow myself to fully relax into the plush cushion of Rhys’ chest, surrendering to the solidity at my back as my eyes flutter shut once more. In and out, the steady cadence of his breathing establishes an easy rhythm—every measured inhale and exhale fanning tendrils of warmth against the nape of my neck.

The thud of his heartbeat pulses like rolling thunder, that baseline timpani striking the bones of my shoulders with each unhurried beat. It should feel jarring, too visceral and forceful compared to the more gentle cadence of Arius’ rhythm that I’m accustomed to. But there’s something profoundly anchoring about that unrelenting tattoo, an elemental metronome establishing the sort of tranquility I’ve longed for but seldom achieved.

Enveloped in the cocoon of Rhys’ body heat and the dusky predawn light cloaking us from the rest of the world, I gradually allow all those restless demons to recede like the ebbing tide. My limbs grow heavier and heavier until they’re melting fully into the bed linens—every knot of tension unravelling strand by strand as I spiral deeper into much-needed oblivion.

This time, even without Arius’ presence, no nightmares dare make an unwelcome visitation.