Page 33 of Adrift

Rani smiles in my direction for the first time since she came out here and something unfurls inside my chest, catching me off-guard. The woman has curves I want my hands on, but there is one curve–her smile–that I know, without a doubt, will lead me into a lot of trouble.

Feeling a little lighter from the rest of the conversation, I let a few moments pass before bringing up the text that went unanswered this afternoon. “So, what did you mean when you said I’d meet Ron–uh, Liam–on Friday?”

She chews on her lip for a prolonged second. “Liam’s picking me up from the house for dinner Friday night.”

I should have known that any of the calm I’d finally garnered around this woman would be wiped clean in an instant.

Chapter Twelve

Rani

I rise up in bed, frantically searching for the sound. My heart beats wildly in my chest as if I’ve just found myself inside a battlefield like a sitting duck. That noise definitely felt like a gunshot. Or was it a shout?

“What the hell was that?” I whisper into the dark before going silent to listen for it again. When I hear nothing but the air conditioner turning on, I lay back down, trying to recover.

Maybe it was in my dream. It felt real, though.

I search my nightstand for my bottle of water but can’t locate it. I must have forgotten to grab one from the fridge last night. “Shit,” I mumble, considering just getting a few sips from the tap in the bathroom, but it never gets cold enough.

Quietly making my way out of my room, I’m just about to take my first step down the stairs when I hear a pained wail from Darian’s room. “No!”

Okay, I definitely wasn’t dreaming.

My breathing speeds up again, and I contemplate whether I should go and check on him. Being as late as it is, I can only assume he’s in the throes of a bad dream. Should I go wake him up or let him come out of it on his own?

I’ve never been inside his room. It’s on the other side of the hall and always closed, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about peering inside. I have, plenty of times, but I haven’t been gutsy enough to encroach. Plus, it’s against my principles to snoop around in someone’s personal space without their knowledge.

Growing up, I never liked when my mom poked around in my room. It made me feel like she was searching for evidence of a crime I didn’t commit. And while she did it out of both curiosity and distrust, it only made me trust her less because of it.

That was just one of many events to stretch the void between us.

So, whether he would find out or not, I can’t do that to Darian. It would be beneath me, and I’m not one who can live with guilt. I’d eventually tell him I did it and that would be more embarrassing.

But I’ll admit that I have had to stop myself from just taking a quick gander–if only to find where that heavenly scent of pine and citrus came from–but again, I haven’t done it.

“Jude . . .” Darian whimpers again and it stirs something inside my chest.

I can’t just wait and listen.

I can’t.

Tiptoeing toward his room, I slowly turn the knob and open the door. It’s fairly dark inside, save for the red light glowing around the numbers on the digital clock on his nightstand. I hear him shuffle and follow my ears toward the sound as my eyes adjust to the lack of light. “Darian.”

“Jude. No . . . wake up.”

He’s on his back, the covers thrown from his body. I can tell he’s still in the clutches of his nightmare, his body rigid and his head jerking from side to side.

“Darian?” I whisper this time, bending over him. I slide my fingertips gently over his arm before following the curve of his shoulder to his neck, noticing it’s bare. I raise my fingers to his cheek. I want to wake him up, but I don’t want to shake or startle him, either. “Darian.”

His skin is damp, like he’s been running, but that same pine scent that always surrounds him lingers in the air. It’s strange to see this man, who exudes intensity and strength with every fiber of his being, appear fearful and panicky. I hate it. I hate that whatever horror he’s stuck inside has the capacity to do this to him.

I gently rub his cheekbone with my thumb, hoping to stir him awake. When he doesn’t, I take a deep inhale and am just about to speak his name again when his hand comes up to grasp my wrist in a firm hold.

I flinch, gasping as I find his eyes.

He’s breathing hard, his chest–which I notice is also bare–is rising and falling rapidly. His rough voice ghosts a sweet chill down my spine, making my legs clench. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m . . . you were having a nightmare,” I stammer. “You cried out, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

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