Page 44 of Montana Memory

Another sound followed, deeper this time. Pained.

Hunter.

I scrambled to my feet, my pulse already picking up speed as I dashed toward the bedroom. It was dim, the sheets tangled around Hunter’s legs as he thrashed, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His muscles were tense, his hands clenched into fists against the mattress.

I hesitated. What should I do? Wake him? Let it pass?

He gave another sharp inhale, his body jerking like he was dodging something—something I couldn’t see but that hecould, somewhere deep in whatever nightmare had him in its grip.

I took a step closer, my chest tight.

“Hunter.” My voice was soft, careful.

No response.

I swallowed, my stomach twisting. “Hunter,” I tried again, louder this time.

Nothing.

I reached out, hesitating only a second before pressing my hand to his shoulder. “Hey. Wake up.”

His body went rigid. Then, in a blur of motion too fast to react to, he was on me.

I barely had time to gasp before I hit the floor, his heavy body pinning me down, one arm braced hard across my chest, his grip viselike around my wrist. I couldn’t move.

His breath was harsh, uneven. His eyes—God, hiseyes—they weren’t seeing me.

They weren’there.

“Where’s the team?” His voice was low, a growl of pure instinct. “How do we get out?”

I sucked in a shaky breath, every nerve in my body screaming at me to panic. But I refused to give in to it.

Fear would only make it worse.

He was still trapped there, wherever his mind had taken him. A war zone. A mission gone wrong. A place where people had died. A place where he thought he might die, too.

I forced my voice to stay calm, even. “Hunter.”

His grip on my wrist tightened. I bit back a wince. “It’s Jada. You’re in Montana. At Resting Warrior Ranch.”

His breathing hitched, and the tension in his body didn’t ease.

“We’re not in combat.” My pulse thundered against my ribs, but I kept my voice steady. “We’re safe. The kittens are here.”

His breath shifted again. Slowed. A flash of something—hesitation, doubt—crossed his face. A crack in the armor.

I pressed on. “I’m here.”

His fingers twitched around my wrist. His eyes darted over my face, searching. His grip loosened.

Slowly—so slowly it nearly killed me—I lifted my free hand, pressing my palm against his bare chest. His heart was racing, erratic beneath my touch.

“Come back to me,” I whispered.

For a long, stretched-out beat, he didn’t move. Then he blinked. Once. Twice.

The tremble in his body was almost imperceptible, but I felt it. Like a slow-motion collapse, he let go.

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