Page 35 of Pretty Threats

My face is half buried in one of the pillows. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He climbs in bed, sticking to his side, as if that will prove he has good intentions. Which I know he doesn’t.

“Why wouldn’t I get it?”

“Go to sleep, Killian.”

“I will,” he says, his voice resolute. “After you tell me.”

This is a tone I know well. Using it means no matter how much I resist, he’ll make me give in.

I huff and slap his arm. Then my hand slips and lands on his side, where his skin is smooth over his muscles. “Having your shirt off already got you what you wanted. Happy?”

“Yeah, actually. Now about the wall, why?”

“I had a nightmare… If I’m on the inside, I’ll feel safer. Since you’re here, you might as well do me some good.”

“You’re safe here, Raine. No one’s going to hurt you.”

After a few moments of silence, I say, “You don’t get nightmares and wake up scared, right? So, you couldn’t understand it.”

“I have dark dreams. Not sure if they’re nightmares. They don’t scare me. Maybe they did a long time ago.”

“When you were a little boy?”

“Yeah. That kid was a rabbit. Weak.”

“Everyone’s weak when they’re small, Killian. Who called you?—?”

He cuts me off before I can finish my question. His voice is terse, maybe even a little defensive. “I don’t remember much about that time.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I think there’s a lot he remembers but refuses to share. And I think it would be better if he told someone. My fingers squeeze his forearm in a silent gesture of support.

“If you wanted to talk to a professional, my dad would be happy to listen.”

“No.”

I slide my hand under my pillow. “Or you can tell me about it, Killian. Even if it’s bad.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “But I’ll make something up if you go back to stroking my arm.”

“I wasn’t stroking it,” I say impatiently. “Can you really not differentiate between a platonic gesture and something else?”

“I guess not. But I can tell the difference between a touch from you and everyone else.”

He probably doesn’t realize that’s a sweet thing to say, but it hits me just the right way and my tiredness gives way to an even deeper desire to really connect with him. It’s never clear whether changing my tone of voice with him makes a difference, but I make my voice soft when I say, “That’s something.”

“It’s not my choice. It just is what it is.”

A soft laugh bubbles out of me.

“What?”

“Nothing. I was trying to reach you, and it feels like a fail. As usual.”

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