Abby 2: Abigail

Chapter 18

Eden's voice echoed in my mind, waking me from my dream. "Abby, wake up!"

I jolted upright, startled and groggy. Sweat soaked the collar of Eden's T-shirt that I had slept in. My heart raced as I tried to parse reality from the memory of that blue-carpeted basement and Miss Clara's accusing finger. I hesitated between the reality of hell I deserved and the comfort of expensive Egyptian cotton sheets. Eden's hand hovered near my shoulder, like he wanted to shake me, but wasn't sure if he should.

"Are you alright, Abby?" His tone was gentler now, the urgency replaced by a steadier concern. "You were thrashing in your sleep."

I wiped the wetness from my forehead, blinking at the pale stripes of sunlight that cut through the gauzy curtains. The view outside was all green and gold, the first hints of morning baking the world in summer warmth.

"Yeah," I said, voice raw. "It was just a dream."

Eden leaned forward, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of damp hair that clung to my cheek. "You were calling out, but I couldn't make out what you were saying. Something about church?" His face was all sharp angles and blue-eyed worry, too beautiful to be part of my old nightmares. The incongruity almost made me laugh.

"I'm fine," I said, even though I wasn't. "Sorry. I woke you."

"You didn't. I was already up. Couldn't sleep."

I knew it was a white lie. He let his hand settle on my shoulder, warm and steady, and for a moment, I let myself anchor to that touch, grateful to be back in the real world. He didn't press for details, which I appreciated. Instead, he rose, moving with that masculine grace of his. The kind that says he'll protect you no matter what, without having to say a word.

"I'll bring you some coffee. Stay here. Relax." He disappeared toward the kitchen, footsteps barely audible on the plush hallway runner.

Alone, I stared up at the ceiling, watching the antique fan wobble in a slow, uneven motion. My body was awake, jittery with aftershocks, but my mind lingered on the words from the dream. "For the wages of sin is death". I could almost hear my father's voice, his knuckles whitening around a black Bible as he led bible study at the dining table, daring me to doubt his word.

I tried to shake it off. I was grown now, engaged to a billionaire, with a pending offer to be shown how to run one of the city's most exclusive clubs. But the past clung to me in weird ways. Sometimes it came in dreams, sometimes in the way I saw weakness in my reflection. Even here, with Eden in his mansion of light and money, I was never entirely free of my ghosts.

Eden returned with two mugs, the coffee's rich scent cutting through the last fog of sleep. He'd made it how I liked: sweet with a splash of almond milk, just enough bitterness to still feel like a grown-up when I drank it. He handed it over and sat next to me on the bed, careful not to spill it.

"Better?" he asked, voice lower now, like a secret.

"Yeah. Thanks."

I wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the heat ground me. My eyes wandered out the window, past the manicured hedges and the glint of water in the pool, to where the morning sun warmed the rose bushes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Eden asked, watching me over the rim of his cup.

I shrugged, still gazing out of the window. "I don't know if there's much to say. Just old crap. Sometimes it comes back up, that's all."

He nodded, not pushing. His hand found my knee under the sheet, thumb drawing lazy circles as he waited for me to find my words. That was one of his best qualities—he knew when to wait.