Two of a Kind (Desire Island 2)

“Blood?” Dylan repeated, startled. “You thought the wax was blood?”

“Yeah.” Another small, mirthless laugh.

“Are you squeamish around the sight of blood?”

She seemed about to say something, but instead pressed her lips together, giving him a curt nod.

Dylan smiled, relieved that was all it had been. “Hey, don’t feel bad. A lot of people have a strong reaction to the sight of blood.”

He gave a snort, recalling, “I once had a surfing accident where I wiped out and got caught in an undertow. I must have hit my head on some broken shells or something, because when I stood up, I was bleeding like a stuck pig, blood streaming down my face. When I got back to shore, my buddy, Jake, a bodybuilder and total jock, took one look at me, turned white as a sheet and passed out cold.”

“Wow,” Kendra said, sounding more like herself now, he was pleased to note. “Were you okay?”

“I was fine, other than a few bumps and scrapes. There are tons of blood vessels in your scalp. You can bleed a lot, even if the cuts are just superficial.”

They reached his suite and Dylan punched in the door code. Entering the space, he directed Kendra to the sofa and grabbed a cold bottle of water from the tiny kitchen. “Here,” he said, coming to sit beside her.

Kendra accepted the bottle and took a long pull, more color returning to her face.

“How does that work out for you as a chef?” Dylan asked, curious. He stroked the chef knives tattoo on her arm. “I mean, you’re always dealing with really sharp knives and stuff, right? I would imagine nicks and cuts come with the territory.”

“I’ll say,” Kendra agreed. “I’ve cut myself dozens of times, especially at first when I was still learning my knife skills,” she added. “It’s never been a problem for me. Not in the kitchens. It’s just… When it’s in the context of BDSM—” She broke off mid-sentence, a stricken expression moving over her face.

“What is it, Kendra?” Dylan asked worriedly. “Did something happen to you personally?” he added in a gentle tone. “Is this about your scars?”

She looked away. In a small voice, she said, “There was once… I…” Again she trailed off, wrapping herself protectively with her arms. “I’m sorry. I want to tell you. I’m… I’m just not ready to talk about it.”

Dylan resisted the urge to press her. Instead, he pulled her close against him. “Okay. No pressure. Let’s go lie down.”

She flashed a small, grateful smile.

They washed up quickly and then settled into bed. Kendra curled around him, resting her head on his chest as he wrapped her in a warm embrace. It wasn’t long before her breathing deepened and slowed, her body going limp as she drifted into what he hoped was peaceful sleep.

He, on the other hand, lay awake for a long time, staring into the darkness, wishing Kendra had felt safe enough to confide in him. But then, he hadn’t told her about Cynthia either. Maybe it was time. He would bare his heart to her, and perhaps that would give her the courage to do the same.

Kendra actually had tomorrow morning off, for a nice change. Now that she had another dessert chef working with her, she didn’t have to pull quite so many hours. And he didn’t have to teach any classes on Sunday mornings, so they could sleep in and then take a long walk on the beach. He would tell her then.

Dylan was yanked from a deep sleep by muffled sounds of distress. The sun was just coming up outside, and the room was bathed in pale, golden light. As he came more fully awake, he saw Kendra beside him in the bed, thrashing and mewling like a plaintive kitten. The covers were twisted around her. Her eyes were closed, her hands clenched into fists, tears streaming down her face.

“Kendra,” Dylan cried, alarmed. “What is it?” Lifting himself on his elbow, he reached for her, gently shaking her shoulder. “Kendra. Wake up,” he said urgently. “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

Her eyes flew open. She stared at him with a look of horror on her face, her hands flying to her mouth. “No,” she cried. “Get away from me! Let me go! Let me go!”

Fuck. She must still be asleep, though her eyes were open. Her short hair was tousled and matted with sweat, her breathing a ragged pant of raw terror.

“Kendra,” he shouted, pulling her rigid body up and into his arms. “Honey, you need to wake up. Everything is fine. You’re safe. It was just a bad dream. Please. Wake up.”

To his relief, she sagged against him, blowing out a long, tremulous sigh. She lifted her head, looking up into his face. “Dylan? Oh, thank god. Thank god.” Then she burst into tears.