Page 109 of Fractured Future

And I have to save myself.

Battling so ferociously to escape the dream, I twist and tangle in the bed sheets until the mattress vanishes from beneath me. My body smacks into the bedroom floor with a loud bang.

“Shit,” I croak through sobs.

The feel of the cold floorboards is actually a welcome relief. Each wooden grain pulls me further from the night terror, the chill making my sweaty body break out in gooseflesh.

I’ve gotten good at grinding my teeth together to swallow the screams that beg to be set free at night. Perhaps all those years of silencing my fear through sheer necessity had some benefit.

Speak out of turn one more time, and I’ll have your tongue!

Banging my forehead against the floor, I attempt to shove Gael’s threats from my consciousness. He isn’t here, but just the memory of him is often enough to pull me into the past’s awfulness.

Sometimes, I dream it’s Gracie screeching for mercy. Her little voice leaking through brick and mortar to torment me. Her soul being repeatedly shattered for someone else’s twisted pleasure.

“Ember!”

Heavy footsteps sound out before the bedroom door is tossed open. Light from the penthouse hallway forms a glowing halo around a half-dressed Warner… holding a gun.

“Em?”

“Jesus Christ.” I gape up at him. “You can put the gun down.”

“What was that noise?”

His hands clenched around the silver weapon, he surveys my new bedroom. The soft grey walls with statement wood panels and a simple double bed are a functional blank canvas.

“Just me. No need to call the cavalry.”

“Are you okay?” He slowly lowers the weapon to his side, clicking the safety into place. “Why are you down there?”

After swiping the hem of my oversized tee beneath my eyes, I shuffle into an upright position and lean against the leather bed frame. I’m not sure my legs are strong enough to hold me yet.

“I’m fine. Go back to bed.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” He tentatively inches into the room. “Bad dream?”

“Something like that.”

Seeming to realise that he’s half-naked in little more than navy sweatpants, Warner shifts on his feet. The hem of his sweats is bunched up around his prosthetic, like it was urgently shoved into place.

“You want to talk about it?”

Fixing my gaze on the piles of unpacked boxes stacked against the built-in, mirrored wardrobe, I wave him off. His fixation on getting me to open up is exhausting.

“Em,” Warner pleads. “Don’t make me watch this without being able to help.”

“Watch what?”

“You torturing yourself for shit you couldn’t control.”

Damn his stupid fucking perceptiveness. I don’t want him in my messed-up head, and I certainly don’t want to hear however he intends to rationalise what my brain is doing to me.

“Just leave me alone.”

“You’re about to get your first lesson on what it means to be a part of this team.” Moving closer, he stretches out a hand. “Come on.”

“We’re not doing this.”