Page 63 of Nowhere to Hide

The easy waves of a summer night lapped around the sides of the boat.

No storms on the radar or rolling in off the ocean. The air was a little on the cool side, but not enough for me to find a shirt.

Besides, I wasn’t sure I could handle anything against my skin.

Not after that fucking shower.

My catamaran had two showers, one in each hull. I’d been afraid to be that close to her. Hell, I’d been hard for a damn hour before I gave up and took a shower to take the edge off. The soulless crank didn’t do anything to help my head or my damn body. It wanted one thing, and it wasn’t my hand that was for sure.

Her citrusy scent with that warm beachy undertone was stuck to me even after I doused myself in my own bodywash.

Like an extra layer of skin.

The sounds she made layered over the sounds of the night on the dock made my adrenaline race in my veins. The protective part made me want to go back in there.

To watch over her.

To make sure she wasn’t scared.

I slammed my fist into the side of the couch. Even with the cushion of the memory foam, the pain locked me back in. It pushed aside the overwhelm and the rush of wind and waves that left static in my head.

My skin prickled and I forced myself to go back inside. Hell, maybe a bourbon would get my head back on straight.

That was when I heard the whimper.

I rushed through the galley kitchen to the stairs and down into the hull. I swung open my bedroom door. She was tangled in my sheets, her bandaged leg outside the covers. The pillows where pushed away and she was flat on her back, her hands above her head.

I swallowed.

Fuck.

Just like that night. Helpless, just like Milligan. My head spun for a second and I bent at the waist to drag in a breath.

No. Not like that night.

I’d actually saved her. I hadn’t been late for her.

The muffled moan snapped me out of the syrupy morass of memories. The way she struggled, she had to be reliving it. I slowly moved closer, cognizant of my own PTSD. “Priscilla.” My voice was firm and clear.

She just arched and thrashed. Worried for her bandage, I moved closer and laid a gentle hand on her thigh. “Shhh. He’s gone, Cilla.” I couldn’t get her back in time if she pulled out her stitches again.

I shouldn’t have come so far out.

I should have known.

Fuck.

I sat beside her, bringing one arm down to touch my face. I didn’t know if that was the right move, but maybe grounding her would drag her out faster. “Cilla.”

Her attention swung toward me, her eyes open but blind. Her fingers jerked against my face before her nails burrowed into the denseness of my beard.”That’s it Cilla, I’m here.” The whimper ripped through me like a knife. I covered her hand on my face. “Priscilla, wake up.”

Her voice dipped. “I hurt.”

The knife dug in and twisted. “Not anymore. Come back to me, Cil. Open those big dark eyes for me.”

She reacted to my voice, her face smoothing, the frown receding. “Safety Locke.”

My chest burned at her nickname for me. “That’s right. It’s Locke. Wake up.”