Fear

39

His arm was around my waist.

That was the first thing I felt when I woke up — exactly what I'd feared the night before. Nothing else in the room mattered, not even the ache in my body. Just the weight of him behind me, pressing into my back. Solid. Warm. Possessive without meaning to be.

I froze. Held my breath. The duvet tightened as if it belonged to both of us, tucked firm under my chin, cocooning me against him. My back pressed flush to his chest, his nose too close to my ear, every slow exhale ghosting over my skin.

I didn't dare move.

If I pretended to still be asleep, maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe I could delay the explosion that would come when he realised how close he was to me.

But then his hand twitched. The long fingers splayed against my stomach flexed once, tightening before going still. A low, unconscious hum slipped from him, deep in his throat, like a sound dredged up from some dream.

And suddenly it dawned on me — this wasn't about me.

The way he held me wasn't tentative, wasn't exploratory, wasn't new. It was familiar. Muscle memory. His body didn't question it. His arm curved around me like it had been here a thousand times before, moulded into the shape of someone else.

Someone he'd loved.

Her.

My throat constricted.

I almost forgot to breathe — until he stiffened.

His grip locked painfully tight for one raw second, as though he thought I might vanish if he let go. Then, as abruptly as it came, the hold broke. His hand ripped away from my waist like I'd burned him.

He rolled back, the mattress jerking beneath us, and the warmth disappeared.

For a moment, all I heard was his breathing. Jagged. Shocked. Panicked. He muttered something low and harsh under his breath I didn't catch — I couldn't tell if it was an apology, a curse, or a name that wasn't mine.

I stayed frozen, staring at the nightstand beside me, terrified that if I turned my head, I'd see him looking at me differently. Not cruel. Not amused. But broken. Or angry.

The bed shifted again. The faint rustle of fabric told me he was pulling on clothes.

I risked a glance then.

Tyler stood at the dresser, back rigid, tugging his shirt over his broad shoulders. The morning light cut him in half, illuminating the planes of his face in the mirror. For just a flicker, his expression was unguarded. Not the predator, not the tormentor. But a man stripped bare, lost in a memory he couldn't kill.

Grief.

And for a few minutes, I felt it too, my own empathy a curse.

But it was gone as soon as it showed. His jaw set, his mask slammed back into place. He buttoned the shirt with hurried motions, every muscle tight as a coiled spring.

I wanted to say something. Anything. To ask who he thought I was. To ask who he'd felt when his arm tightened around me. But the words withered in my throat. If I asked, he'd answer with a blade.

Silence was a safer bet.

He buckled his watch, slid his keys from the dresser, every movement rushing him closer to the door, like he needed immediate escape.

He didn't look at me. Not once.

When he reached the door, he paused for a moment, hovering over the handle, shoulders squared, his head tilted slightly as though weighing something.