Page 65 of Unveil

I cross my arms. “Then it won’t be beside me. Because I—aka not your ‘bride’—am sleeping in this bed, and you’re sleeping on the floor.”

“The fuck I am.”

I shrug. “One of us is.”

He groans but grabs a blanket from a storage container and plops onto the floor in front of the door. Then he levels me with a glare.

“If you think we’re gonna be allPleasantvillewith two twin beds back at the Fury compound, you’re mistaken.” I open my mouth to retort, but then he stops me. “And if you think you’re gonna escape through the windows? That’ll be a mistake too. If anyone tries to open them, they’ll get rocked. Literally.”

He points at the ceiling where a few huge stones hang by some invisible strings, presumably to barrel right into the windows and door.

“Fine,” I spit. Laying my head on the pillow, I scowl at him. “I hate you, you know that?”

He closes his eyes, holding the blanket like a pillow in front of him. “You might. But you’ll love me soon enough.”

“How do you know that?” I yawn, wishing I could put some oomph into my anger, but I’m too tired to care.

My eyes, heavy from fatigue, narrow at him. His head tips back against the door, legs splayed, and brow relaxed.

Finally, when I’ve all but closed my eyes, he answers sleepily, “Because all you have to do is meet me halfway.”

We’re both asleep before I can ask what that means.

“Momma!”

The ragged scream snaps me upright, my hand pressing against my racing heart. But other than the stove’s crackle, silence greets me inside the cabin. Outside, the storm still rages, rumbling and slapping branches against the window.

Was that what I heard?

The twigs tap their fingers in an off-beat rhythm, scratching at the glass to be let in. I shudder, pulling the blanket tighter as I scan the room—stopping at Orion slumped against the door.

His legs are stretched out, head eerily tilted toward me, as if he can see me with his eyes closed. He clutches the blanket in his arms like a life raft, though if it were one, it would’ve popped by now from the force of his grip, his biceps bulging and tattoos rippling in the dim light. I don’t think he’s moved since we fell asleep.

Except his fingers twitch, and his body spasms in his sleep. His chest rises and falls too quickly. Is he hyperventilating?

His lips move in fits and starts, muttering words I can’t catch. A jerk shudders through him, shoulders flexing, knees shifting like he’s fighting off a monster.

Maybe it’s Bigfoot.

I almost laugh, until a broken sound escapes him, tugging an ache from my chest.

“Momma…”

It was him. He’s what woke me. Orion Fury is having a nightmare.

“Please…” he begs.

The pain in his voice is so raw, so anguished, there’s no way his subconscious is dreaming up something from his imagination. I’ve heard the same torment the few times my dad has suffered night terrors. This isn’t just a nightmare.

It’s a memory.

The ragged whimper that slips out of Orion springs tears in my eyes. I wipe them angrily because I’m not supposed to feel anything for my kidnapper. I refuse to get Stockholm syndromed. And even though I’m always desperate for dark romance characters to just bang it out as soon as the villain shows an ounce of vulnerability, I’m not supposed to want that in reallife.

Right?

I swallow, frozen. Do I let it pass or wake him? My dad only has them when he goes to sleep without my mom, usually on the couch after watching a game. As far as I know, she’s never woken him, but as soon as she sits with him, he calms down. But I feel like that’s way too intimate?—

“Help…”