Page 8 of Protected from Malice (Blade and Arrow Shadow Team #1)

EDEN

The nightmare fractures on a strangled scream.

But I’m still stuck in it.

Fighting to get out.

Kicking. Punching. Pleading.

No. Don’t. Let me go. Please.

“Eden. Wake up.”

The rational part of my brain whispers, It’s just a dream. It’s not real. You’re safe.

But it feels real.

All of it.

The sound of footsteps on asphalt. First walking. Then moving faster.

The damp chill in the air. The light rain misting over me. The shivers of cold turning to those of fear.

My heart racing. Lungs bursting. A panicked scream caught in my throat.

The pain. So much?—

“Brain. Wake up. Now .”

I want to.

But clinging tendrils of the nightmare won’t let me escape.

I twist. Kick. Fight. But something won’t let me up.

Or is it someone ?

Terrible images flash before my eyes, one after another.

A dark-clothed man creeps through my house, a gun dully shining in his hand and a malicious smile curving his lips.

A shadowy figure hunches behind the wheel of a truck, his teeth bared in a sinister grin.

The parking lot, dark and silent. Empty. Or at least I thought?—

“ Eden . I need you to wake up now.”

The voice is rough. Commanding. Impossible to ignore.

It’s familiar. Achingly so.

Rafe .

His voice reaches through the sticky darkness and grabs hold of me. Pulls me free.

My eyes fly open to find Rafe leaning over me, his features lined with worry.

He’s perched on the edge of the bed, wearing boxers and a T-shirt that shows off his tattooed arms. The light on the bedside table is on, its warm glow softening the hard angles of his face. His brows pinch into a deep V as he looks at me.

“Eden,” he says gently. Soothingly. “Are you okay? Do you know where you are?”

I try to answer, but the words get stuck.

Yes.

I’m at the hotel. With Rafe.

It was just a nightmare. Not real. Not anymore.

“Eden, baby. Can you talk to me?” Rafe touches my shoulder. The heat from his hand seeps into me, gradually unthawing my body. “I know you’re scared,” he adds, “but you’re safe. I promise.”

Right.

I’m safe. Rafe won’t let anyone hurt me.

Ragged remnants of memory scatter as my nightmare recedes.

Instinctively, I put my hand over his.

“I’m at the hotel,” I whisper. “It was just a nightmare. I’m okay.”

Rafe wraps his fingers around mine, sending a rush of heat and static electricity flowing through them.

His breath comes out in a heavy rush. “Shit, Eden.” His jaw works.

As I push myself up in bed, his gaze sweeps over me, carefully assessing.

Then he turns my hand over and holds his thumb to my pulse.

After ten seconds or so, he frowns. “Your pulse is way too fast. So is your breathing. Try to take some deep breaths. Okay?”

The stubborn part of me wants to insist I’m fine.

But I know from experience that this kind of nightmare can throw me into a full-blown panic attack if I don’t calm my body down. And I really don’t want Rafe to see that. Me, shaking all over, my sweat-soaked clothes clinging, breath sawing in and out in frantic gasps, whimpering…

No, I don’t want Rafe seeing that.

So I use the technique my counselor taught me, breathing from low in my diaphragm—in for five, hold for five, then release. I repeat it until my breath evens out and my heart doesn’t feel like it’s about to beat out of my chest anymore.

The entire time, Rafe’s thumb rests on my wrist. Counting. Slowly caressing.

Wait.

Is he? Not just touching my skin, but stroking it?

No. Surely that’s all in my head. Rafe is just worried. He wants to make sure I’m not going to hyperventilate and pass out on him.

Meeting his gaze, I work to steady my voice. “I’m okay. Really.” Glancing around the room, I notice the makeshift bed Rafe insisted on—just the comforter and a pillow set on the floor by the door—is in disarray, like he flung it aside in his hurry to get to me.

“Sorry for waking you up,” I add. “I didn’t mean?—”

“Eden.” Rafe lets go of my hand, and I only just stop myself from grabbing hold of him again. He adjusts the sheets that are tangled around my legs and pulls them back over my lap. “Don’t apologize for having a nightmare. And you didn’t wake me up.”

I angle my head at the comforter on the floor. “It sure looks like I did.”

“Nope.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “I was just laying there, playing a trivia game on my phone.”

As he shifts on the bed, his shirt rises, revealing a flash of black hidden beneath it.

His gun.

And that’s why he wasn’t sleeping. Not because he was playing one of those trivia apps he likes so much, but because he was keeping watch.

Staying awake to protect me while I slept.

Guilt crashes into me.

Yes, I know the guys were trained in the Army to get by on very little sleep. But Rafe’s forty now. Not old, not even close, and honestly, he looks more in shape than most twenty-somethings I’ve met, but surely he needs more sleep than he did back then.

Crap, I’m thirty-four and I feel like a dishrag that’s been crumpled up and put away wet when I get less than six hours of sleep.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I didn’t think. But you need sleep, too. I can stay awake just in case someone tries to come in. Not that I think anyone will. And with the security you added, I’m sure?—”

“Are you kidding me?” Rafe shoots me a look of disbelief. “Do you honestly think I’d go to sleep while you sit up, jumping every time you hear someone in the hallway? Every time you hear a door shut in the parking lot? Have to wake me up because you think someone is trying to break in?”

Well.

When he puts it that way.

“I guess not,” I reply softly. “I just feel bad. You came all the way out here, after a job, no less, and you’re not even at my house before… you know. And now you’re laying on the floor, on a carpet that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years…”

Casting a quick glance at the aforementioned carpet, I crinkle my nose in distaste.

“I was going to make you dinner, and I had the guest room all set up, and I even got Trivial Pursuit out if you wanted to play before bed. And now we’re here.

You’re here. Stuck sleeping—wait, not sleeping—on the floor while you babysit me. ”

Rafe stares at me for several seconds before speaking. Intensity burns in his eyes. “First, do not feel bad. About any of it. I want to be here. Shit, I wish I’d gotten here sooner. But that’s on me. Not you.”

“If I’d explained more…”

“No.” Rafe’s big hand comes around mine, engulfing it in reassuring warmth.

His lightly calloused fingers brush against my skin, setting off tiny bursts of fire.

“I should have asked more questions. As soon as you said you were worried, I should have hopped on a red-eye instead of waiting until the next morning. I should have insisted?—”

His mouth snaps shut. A frustrated sigh huffs out. “Anyway. Do not feel bad, Eden. I mean it. As for the nightmare…” Concern darkens his eyes, turning one dark chocolate and the other a deep evergreen. “Have you been having them ever since this whole thing started?”

My stomach flips.

“Not really,” I hedge. “Maybe one or two small ones. Nothing like this.”

I’m not technically lying. The nightmares I’ve had over the past month haven’t been that bad. Scary, yes. But nothing I couldn’t deal with. I’d just watch cooking videos on my phone—baking seemed to be the most soothing—until I fell back asleep.

But tonight?

I haven’t had a whopper like that in almost a year.

Rafe’s eyebrows shoot up, his skepticism abundantly clear.

My cheeks go hot.

“Eden,” Rafe starts. His voice is gently scolding. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

A heavy cloak of guilt settles over me.

I shouldn’t be keeping anything from Rafe.

Not when he dropped everything to come out to Portland to help me.

When he agreed to keep it a secret from Indy—his best friend—just because I asked him to.

When he put himself in danger to protect me, and now he’s not-sleeping on the gross hotel carpet that probably hasn’t been steam cleaned in over a decade.

I should tell him everything.

But.

Does it have to be now?

At—I glance at the little clock on the bedside table—three-fifteen in the morning? After an already exhausting and stressful night, when I’m already feeling so fragile the slightest thing could shatter me?

“Eden,” Rafe repeats. “You can talk to me. I won’t judge.” He pauses. “If it’s something you don’t want me to tell Indy, I won’t.”

The gentle way he says it nearly makes me burst into tears.

My eyes burn. My nose stings.

A lump lodges in my throat.

“Not tonight,” I whisper. “I’ll tell you. Just… not tonight.”

Rafe sucks in a sharp breath. His body tenses. On an exhale, he says, “You can tell me anything. Any time.”

I know I can. Even though Rafe and I have never had that kind of relationship—talking about feelings and deep secrets and hopeful dreams—I know I can trust him.

“Tomorrow. Would that be okay? Tonight…”

“You need sleep,” he finishes. Casting a quick glance around the room, his gaze lights on the TV.

“We can find a cooking show to put on. Turn the volume down low. Leave the lights on.” Pausing, his brow furrows in thought.

“Maybe I could find some tea somewhere. The person working at reception might have a hot water dispenser. I could pay them to get some tea, drop it off here…”

The lump in my throat gets bigger.

I don’t like tea. I think it tastes like potpourri, actually. But the idea that Rafe would go through the effort of trying to find me tea at three in the morning…

And he would find some. Of that, I’m certain. Rafe’s a problem solver at his core. Sharing his emotions? Telling people he cares about them? No. That’s not who he is.

But he shows it in his own way, like the time he tracked down sold-out playoff tickets for Indy’s thirtieth birthday or when he bribed my favorite pizza shop in Boston into making a ranch-pickle pizza for me because I’d been obsessing over trying one for months.