* * *
ERIN HUDDLED IN a ball, shaking. The nightmare had been the worst ever. She knew that much, even if fragments were all that lingered. Even those were already blurring with what she’d really seen that day.
And then she heard her front door open and slam shut, and someone thundering up the stairs. She felt a split second of panic before Cole shouted, “Erin?”
“I’m here,” she tried to say, but when she rolled over, she could see him crossing the room. “What—”
“Can I turn the lamp on?” He didn’t wait for an answer.
Erin closed her eyes against the sudden light, but afterimages flared behind her eyelids.
The mattress compressed as he sank down on the edge of the bed. The next thing she felt was his warm hand cupping her cheek. “You’re crying.” He sounded shocked.
“Crying?” What was he talking about? She didn’t cry in her sleep. Yet, when she lifted her own hand to her face, she found her cheek wet. “I am,” she whispered.
He made a gruff sound. “You scared the shit out of me. You sounded like someone was attacking you.”
Through blurry eyes, she saw him bending over her, his face creased with worry. He stroked her cheek, then rose to his feet.
“I’ll get something for you to mop up with.”
Why was she crying tonight, when she hadn’t cried before, after her nightmares? Shocked, she knew tears still fell.
Cole came back with a wad of toilet paper. With him sitting on the edge of the bed again, watching, she dried her cheeks and blew her nose.
“I can’t believe I woke you up,” she mumbled.
“I hadn’t fallen asleep yet.”
“Oh.” She blinked until the numbers on her bedside clock came into focus—2:17.
He took the wet tissue from her hands and stood, going briefly into the bathroom. “You want to tell me about it?” he asked as he walked back toward the bed.
That was the moment she realized he was shirtless. That his chest and shoulders were as spectacular as she’d imagined. His khakis hung low on his hips, letting her see the line of brown hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. He was barefoot, too, which she found as disconcerting as seeing him without a shirt.
“Your tattoo.” A clawed hand of some kind reached over his shoulder. “Can I see it?”
Between one step and the next, he went still. After a hesitation, he turned so she could see his back.
Unsurprisingly, it was a dragon climbing his back, hooking a front paw over his shoulder. The flame shooting from its mouth crept up his neck.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Whoever did it is an artist.” The dragon was sinuous, seeming to move whenever Cole shrugged.
“Guy in prison. It…seemed like the thing to do.” He turned so that she could see only the claws and flame again.
She wanted to ask if it was associated with a gang, but kept her mouth shut. “I thought prison tattoos tended to be crude.”
He shook his head. “Depends on the tattooist. What most guys want is symbolic. Teardrops.” He touched beneath one eye. “Barbed wire, gang or biker identification. A shackle with a broken chain.” He looked down at her. “Will you be able to get back to sleep?”
“Sure.”
She must have said it too hastily, because he sat on the edge of the bed again, his frown apparent. “You’re a lousy liar, you know.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he said. “Tell me about your nightmare.”
He’d go if she said it wasn’t any of his business, but he’d come racing to the rescue after hearing what must have been a bloodcurdling scream. Or…
“I had my window open.”
“What?” He looked in that direction, nodded. “Mine was open, too.”
So maybe her scream hadn’t been any louder than usual. Still, he sat there waiting.
Drawing her knees tighter to her chest, she said, “It was mostly the same thing. Except worse. In the real world, I…regained consciousness before the bodies were removed. I saw some of them.” A shudder rattled her. Even her teeth chattered.
Cole swore and, to her shock, pulled back the covers, swung his legs up onto the bed and laid down on his side, facing her. As stiff as her body was, he drew her down onto her side, pillowing her head on his taut bicep. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.