Page 51 of Thorns That Bloom

“So…would it be okay for me to get your number? You know, so I can make sure I don’t bring leftovers for you when we’re working different hours or…so you can tell me you maybe don’t feel like being around an alpha, ‘positive role model’ or not,” I blurt out, flashing him a hesitant look.

One corner of Sam’s mouth rides up. His eyes study me with a hint of suspicion.

“As friends,” I reiterate in a serious tone. “I mean it.”

He sighs.

“I suppose you have a point,” he says and extends his open hand out to me. “Your phone.”

I give it to him, biting back that stupid grin again. Sam notices it and does the same.

“Texts only, okay? That’s my hard rule. I hate people calling me. It’s the twenty-first century, for god’s sake,” he mutters to himself, briefly eyeing the other two cookies. I just keep staring at him, drinking in the unrestrained sight of him while he is distracted.

I love how grumpy he is. Sometimes I see him scowling at the people in the cafeteria before they speak to him, like his innate reaction to anyone approaching him is a disgusted ‘what the hell do you want fromme’.

I want to be the only one he lights up seeing. The one he truly wants to be around when I’m gone.

Even if it’s just as a friend. That’s enough.

“Yessir,” I say.

After contemplation, Sam takes a bite of another cookie, and my heart is full.

Chapter 15

Sam

I wake up with the sensation of icy, rough hands grabbing at me, pulling and choking and pushing me in every direction. Staring at the ceiling while I try to regain control of my trembling limbs, I swallow the lump in my throat and close my eyes, fighting to blink the remnants of the nightmare’s sensations away.

If only it was just a nightmare. But that would imply something made-up, something happening only inside my head.

This was worse. Much, much worse. An echo. A twisted, warped memory. Brought on by that horrible wound that my body and mind are still trying to heal, but it keeps oozing no matter how hard I treat it.

With a shaky exhale, I put my arms up over my face. The sheet under me is cold and soaked in sweat. I think even the baby got startled. I feel them moving more than they usually do in the morning.

Is their heart pounding as wildly as mine? Are they terrified, too?

I hope not. I hope and pray they never feel something like that.

Carefully, I pull myself up to sit against the creaking headboard. While I take care to slow my breaths and search for five things I can point out and name in the room, I gently brush my hand over my rounded belly. “I’m so sorry. It’s okay,” I whisper.

Weird dreams are normal at this stage of pregnancy, at least from what I read. I just wish I only had those. Weird, vivid dreams. Not so much this kind…

I know I shouldn’t feel disappointed. This isn’t my fault. But I’ve been doing so well recently. The flashbacks have decreased significantly. My body has finally started to release some of that horrible, bone-deep tension, but then that fucking cleaner being changed at work completely threw me off again.The stupid citrus scent.One tiny thing and I’m back to waking up at five in the morning in panic and cold sweat.

With some effort, I relax my clenched fists and the tension in my jaw.

“Breathe,” I tell myself, focusing on the baby and their comfort. I visualize them, floating inside me, protected.

I am their home. Their haven. I need to make it a safe one.

Ihaveto.

I know the rest of the day will be utter shit when the faint sensation of discomfort and unease lingers even after I take a long shower and eat some breakfast. It’s a feeling of being watched, of having someone’s hands hovering right above my back. Every time I turn, there’s nothing, making me that much more paranoid and frustrated with myself.

All in your head.

'Not your fault. Your responsibility.'