He'll have to break all the rules to keep her, but first she has to break just one and let him in...
It's taken four years, but Anna Fray has finally put the past behind her. Mostly. She fills her days working in a bar and her nights watching bad ro...
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"Get down."
Nightmare blinked at me from the kitchen counter.
With slow, deliberate, movements she lowered her head and took another lick from my cereal bowl.
I stared at her with raised eyebrows. My cheeks twitched as I tried to hold back a smile and keep the stern look on my face.
She stared back. Her lime green eyes locked on mine as her tail gave an insolent flick.
Then she continued eating.
I laughed despite myself. "Right. That's on me. I don't know why I expected some kind of obedience."
She chirped in victory and purred as she lapped at the remaining milk in the bowl.
Adorable little gremlin, I smirked reaching for my coffee instead.
In the corner of my eye I saw movement in the back yard.
My shoulders tensed, the remnant of a reflex I had battled with since the attack.
In the first week or two after, I'd struggled with the panic that gripped me. Sometimes I knew it would come: in the dead of night when the darkness was thick and crushing; or when footsteps echoed on the street outside; or the few times I found myself in the still quiet of the beer cellar where the hush felt almost alive. Other times it struck out of nowhere, like my life was now booby trapped with trigger wires I wasn't aware of. Like when Callum grabbed me for a hug welcoming me back after my time off. Or, the one that hurt more than I expected, when Atticus tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and caressed the nape of my neck. I hated that my body felt Christopher's hands around my neck, but I hated the look in Atticus' eyes more.
Since that day I'd battled the intrusive thoughts and knee-jerk reactions. I told myself I was safe. I forced myself to take deep breaths, so deep that I could feel my diaphragm stretch and fight for space. I talked to Atticus, even when it felt like the words were being pulled from my throat, lashed with thick rough ropes crusted with sea salt.
It all helped, a little. Eventually, the nightmares came less frequently. They weren't gone, just quieter. Manageable.
It helped that the bruises were gone now too. Mostly. A faint yellow shadow still lingered near my collarbone if you knew where to look, but the mirror no longer startled me.
I took a breath and let it work its way into my tight shoulders, coaxing the muscles to relax and release.
At the soft knock on the door, Nightmare immediately abandoned the stolen breakfast and trotted towards it.
Traitor.
I followed, mug in hand, and opened the back door.
Atticus stood leaning casually against the door frame with a paper bag in one hand and coffee in the other.
