Page 27 of House of Royals

She suddenly opens one eye, glaring death at her grandson. “What the hell you waking me up fo’?” she demands. “I was havin’ a nice dream about Winston. Why you gotta’ go and drag me back from that?”

“Sorry, Lula,” Ian says. “You didn’t hear anything in the last hour or so, did you?”

“Boy, get out of my room and let me go back to sleep.” She grunts as she rolls onto her side, her back to us.

We both step outside, and Ian closes her bedroom door quietly. “Lula could sleep through a hurricane these days and still not wake up when the house came down on top of her.”

Ian checks his cabin and comes back three minutes later with word that it hasn’t been touched. Whoever broke in is long gone.

“Why does anyone still live in this town?” I ask as I sweep up the mess in the kitchen. “It’s just chaos here, all the time.”

“When your roots run deep, it’s hard to walk away.” He rights a chair in the living room and puts the cracked lamp back on the end table.

“I guess I just don’t get it,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s just not like that where I come from.”

“Like two different worlds,” Ian says quietly.

That’s for damn sure.

IT TAKES A LONG TIME for Ian to settle down enough to go to bed. He rushes into the house about every ten minutes to check on Elle. He takes his medic bag every single time. But she’s going to be okay and everything is quiet.

“You should get some sleep,” I tell him when it gets close to midnight.

“Yeah,” he says in a scoff. “Someone attacked my family and I’m going to sleep tonight.”

A yawn starts to take over and I stretch my arms over my head. “Either you try or I’m going to drug you. I’m exhausted, but you’re keeping me all keyed up.”

“Look, you don’t have to stay up with me,” he says, looking out the window again. “I’ll be fine. Just go in the bedroom, shut the door, and pretend I’m not out here.”

I take a step toward him and place a hand on his forearm. “Ian, everything’s okay now. They’re long gone, they got what they wanted. So calm down.”

His eyes flicker to mine and they burn with intensity. Relaxing is something Ian never does. He’s a born fighter with plenty of fuel to keep him burning hot for a long time. But there is exhaustion in his eyes.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

So, as we’ve been doing for the past seven days, we quietly get ready for bed. We both stand at the sink brushing our teeth, and I can feel the tension and anxious anger rolling off of Ian in waves. I want to reach over and smooth out all of his angry wrinkles. I want to pull him into my arms for a minute and force him to relax. But I just keep stealing glances at him in the mirror.

We change into sleeping clothes. And at 12:31, we say goodnight.

My dreams are scattered and many. At one point my mom and I are taking a walk through the park by our old house. But then something jumps out of the shadows and she’s gone. And then there is a red queen with a giant bear beside her, making demands of me that I can’t understand. And there is Ian, always in the shadows, along with the hint of a man named Henry. But Henry has no face.

I roll in my sleep, tossing and turning and never at peace.

As something jumps at my face with fangs and blood, my eyes fly open.

The bedroom is dim, and it seems fuzzy and unreal as my heart pounds in my chest. The blankets are tangled around my feet, making me feel imprisoned. Sweat coats my skin, the humidity and my nightmares combining. I kick the covers off, lying exposed on the bed staring at the ceiling.

A soft snore all too close pulls my eyes to the corner.

Ian sleeps in a camping chair in the corner of the bedroom. His legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. A shotgun rests in his arms, pointing at the ceiling. I can see a stake poking out of his pocket.

Last I saw him, he was heading to bed on the couch.

But at some point, he snuck back in here without me hearing him. He stood guard. With a gun. Overme,not his sister or grandmother. Through another intended sleepless night.

I lie back down, my cheek on the pillow. I study Ian’s face. The scruff that’s always on his chin. His dark, heavy brows. The tight lines that are already forming around his eyes from the constant worry. His thin lips pressed together tightly, even in sleep.

The heart is a complicated thing. Ian’s. Mine.

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