Page 48 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

I don’t knock.

Don’t wait for River to give me permission. Not this time.

“No!” she shouts as I burst inside, flick on the lights, and search the shadows for an intruder.

She’s alone.

Relief barrels through me, at least until I see her pale, sweat-slick skin, her eyes closed but her expression one of terror as she thrashes on the bed, the blankets and sheets all tangled up around her.

Fuck.

I hurry over. “River.”

She jerks violently, her panic radiating off her so intensely it almost burns me.

“River.”

“No—no, stop— Don’t hurt?—”

Fuck.

I reach toward her, my first reaction to wake her before I force myself to stop.

What if I make it worse? What if I scare her worse?

“River,” I say again, a little louder, a little more firmly. But my heart is pounding, making it difficult for me to speak calmly, to keep my voice calm and steady. “You’re safe, little hen.”

Her breathing turns ragged.

Her head twists from side-to-side on the pillows.

And dammit, I have to end this.

“Little hen.” I reach out, brush my fingers over her cheek, gentling my voice. “Wake up for me, sweetheart.”

The touch has her eyes snapping open, wild panic in the bright blue depths.

She flinches and flails her arms, trying to get away from me, but she’s still tangled in the sheets, something that makes her panic even more, wrenching herself against the material so fiercely I hear a tear and she nearly falls off the mattress.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re okay, little hen. It’s just me. Just Thorn.”

I keep talking, but I don’t touch her again.

And finally, my words seem to get through.

Her eyes clash with mine, her chest heaves violently. But she’s finally here in the present—even though the past still has her in its stranglehold.

I hate it.

Hate seeing the fear in her eyes.

But more so, I hate not being able to kill the man who put it there.

“Can I touch you?” I ask quietly.

She freezes, her stare still fixed on mine even as her lungs work impossibly hard.

Then—thank fuck—she nods.