Dreaming of White ✔ [Completed]

Chapter 8 - Dreaming of White

His feet were cold. So was his nose. And his hands. And basically the whole rest of him, with the tiny exception of a spot on his neck, where her breath bathed his skin in a warm caress every time she exhaled. It made him close his eyes — and the prospect of hypothermia a lot more bearable.

Aside from feeling cold, he realised he was starting to feel drowsy. Which wasn't good. He knew he had to rouse Riddhima from her sleep soon. They needed to move. The car only offered them temporary shelter, because without a working battery to power the heating system, the temperature inside the vehicle had already dropped to uncomfortably frosty levels. They needed to find better shelter, somewhere warm and dry and preferably with hot water, a kettle, blankets and a working phone-line.

In that exact order.

He'd spotted a holiday cabin on the map, only two miles from here. Didn't seem far, but two miles in this weather wasn't going to be much fun.

It was better than freezing to death in a rental car, though.

Death.

He swallowed hard against the fear rising inside him.

He'd almost lost her today.

Twice.

It had scared the hell out of him.

Given everything that life had thrown at him up to this point, there were not a lot of things left that could frighten him this deeply. He could, actually, narrow it down to three. Which was, he had to admit, rather scary in itself, so he corrected that number first to three and a half and then on further reflection to four.

Number one on his list of fears — he had of late found he was rather fond of lists — was exactly this scenario:

Losing Riddhima.

It was the one thing he knew would end him.

In quiet moments, when this particular fear crept into his thoughts unannounced and unwelcome, Vansh usually closed his eyes and imagined hurling it up the dark stairway, gripping it tight, forcing it down the short dark corridor towards the big door ahead. He imagined pale morning light spilling out from the half open door, pulling him towards the room beyond, beckoning him to come in. But he resisted the urge to step into the room, to be enveloped by familiar scents and sights and memories. Instead he gritted his teeth — as much in the real world as in his mind — and shoved the fear into the room, hastily pulled the door shut and clicked the padlock into place. Then he let himself go downstairs again, matching his breathing to the steps he climbed down. Counting. Breathing. Relaxing. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs he was usually calm again. He tried to ignore the fact that the number of stairs in his mind had no relation to the number of stairs in the real building in Sacramento anymore.

It had more than doubled.

He tried not to think about what that meant, because if he did, he might have to imagine an oxygen tank for the next time he climbed into the room.

The number two and number three on his list were in a way directly linked to number one, so he never gave them much thought and/or worry. Cause and effect. If he prevented number one from happening, the rest would never be an issue.

He'd almost lost her today. Twice. And that wasn't even counting the prospect of her moving away with another man.

If he included that, the number would rise to three.

Which was unacceptable.

He knew she was always going to put herself in danger. That came with the job. And the job was an essential part of her that nothing and no one had the right to take away from her. So there wasn't much he could do about that. Well, at least not much more than he already did. Keeping her safe. Looking out for her. Even though he knew about 90 percent of the time she didn't need it. But those remaining ten percent he had covered. As long as he was her partner. As long as he was at her side.