More Than Anything (Broken Pieces 1)

Every breath caught in her chest on a sob, her face wet against his chest, while she cried as if her heart were breaking.

“Tina, sweetheart, please. Wake up. It’s a dream. It’s just a dream.”

She gasped sharply and went rigid in his arms.

“Harris?” Her voice was reedy. Her arms wrapped around his waist, and she hugged him close. He thought she would relax now that she was awake and knew he was with her; instead her breathing grew shallow, coming in rapid pants.

“Tina?”

“Dark. Too dark,” she gasped. She was breathing so fast, he worried she would hyperventilate and pass out.

He recalled the night-light she’d had on when he had come in here a couple of nights ago and could have kicked himself for turning the bedside lamp off and engulfing the room in complete darkness. He swore and once again fumbled for the lamp switch, thankfully finding it this time and flooding the room with light. She inhaled a huge gulping breath of air, and he grabbed her face and planted a relieved kiss on her lips.

They simultaneously became aware of the pounding on the front door, and Harris swore again as he reluctantly extricated himself from her clinging arms.

“No. Please . . . stay.”

“It’s Greyson. You don’t know how bloodcurdling your screams are, Tina. He probably thinks I’m murdering you in here. Just give me a moment, okay? I’ll be right back.” He searched for his boxer briefs and found them entangled in his jeans. He dragged them on and rushed to the door, where Greyson was still banging and shouting. He sounded alarmed. Thank God they had no other neighbors in close proximity.

He unlocked the door, and it flew open. Greyson stormed in, looking wild and ready to do battle. His hair was messy and sticking up on one side, and he had a sleep crease on one of his cheeks. He wore pajama bottoms and nothing else. Which was still better than Harris, who was practically nude.

“Is Tina okay?” Greyson asked urgently.

“She’s fine. She had a nightmare.” Harris kept his voice pitched low so that Tina wouldn’t hear him. “She had one Saturday night too. I think it’s the same one.” He couldn’t keep the concern from creeping into his voice, and Greyson’s gaze sharpened as he took in Harris’s clothing, or lack thereof.

“I’m guessing this isn’t a friendly neighborly visit,” he said, folding his arms over his chest while his mouth tilted up sardonically on one side. That smug, know-it-all grin irritated the living hell out of Harris.

“That’s none of your concern,” he said, sounding as stuffy as Greyson usually did.

“You’re sure Tina’s okay?” his twin asked again, and Harris nodded. “Jesus, I won’t be forgetting the sound of those screams anytime soon. They were spine chilling.”

“I know,” Harris said grimly. He needed to have a talk with Tina.

“Right. I’ll leave you to it. Good night.” He opened the front door and shuddered dramatically. “God, it’s freezing!”

He threw his shoulders back as he braced himself and stepped out into the cold, wet night, dashing back home on his bare feet. Harris shut and locked the door behind the other man and, after getting a glass of water from the kitchen sink, he padded back to Tina’s bedroom.

She had dragged on a T-shirt and looked a lot more composed, which he was grateful for, even though he silently lamented the fact that her defenses were firmly back in place. He knew he’d get little to no information about the nightmare from her now.

He sat down on the edge of the bed beside her and handed her the water. She took a thirsty gulp before rewarding him with a smile.

“Thank you.” He said nothing in response to that, instead reaching over to smooth a few stray curls out of her damp face.

“Better?” he asked after she’d drained the glass. She nodded, and he took the glass from her to place it on the bedside table.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, keeping her eyes downcast.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion. “But—”

She lifted her eyes to meet his concerned gaze. “Don’t ask, Harris,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m not prepared to discuss it.”

“Then it’s the same nightmare,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I could go for months without having one. It’s been a while since I’ve had two so close together.”

“Am I the trigger?” The question was hard to ask, because he wasn’t sure he could handle the answer, but he needed to know.

The pause before she replied was significant and telling. And it just about killed him.

“Sometimes,” she admitted, and he successfully smothered the urge to mutter something vile. Depressed by the fact that while he had been entertaining thoughts of more with her, hope for a future . . . he sometimes triggered nightmares that made her scream in absolute terror. How the hell was he supposed to live with that demoralizing fact?