Page 59 of Dark Night of the Soul

But still, I didn’t drink.

“Stop touching me,” I snapped.

I didn’t mean it and he knew it. He’d feel the lie burning beneath his skin. But I needed… something. Distance. Control. Proof I could still refuse.

He froze. Like he didn’t know how to react to that. Didn’t know what to say.

I wasn’t sure why I snapped at him. He was trying to help me.

“It needs to be cleaned and dressed.” His voice was low, even. Like stating a fact.

I knew it did. I didn’t care.

I wanted to punch him. To lash out at something—someone—who could take it. One hand curled around the glass. The other curled into a fist. Because his calm was too much to bear.

He went back to trying to clean it. And I flinched again. His other hand came up to keep my face steady. Fingers firm on my chin. I gritted my teeth.

And then it was too much to bear. I closed my eyes and leaned into his hand. His warmth. His strength. His other hand stilled, the wound forgotten. Then his fingers were slipping into my hair. He pressed his forehead against mine.

“Don’t you let them win.”

A breath stuttered out of me.

“You fight this,” he said.

“I don’t know if I can.”

I knew what they did to me. But he didn’t. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t face it.

For a moment, we sat like that, the deafening silence all around. I strained my ears to listen but heard nothing. Not a car horn. Or the hum of traffic. Or the swish of a breeze in the trees. Wherever he’d brought us, we were some place so hidden, not even the outside world could intrude.

I fell into him then, slipping an arm around his waist. He plucked the glass out of my hand and set it aside. As if he sensed what I was going to do next. My other hand fisted in his shirt, grounding myself against him as I pressed my face to his neck. Inhaled his scent. Sandalwood. The essence of him. The only thing that could save me from myself.

He shifted, then. Picked me up. The blanket fell away from my shoulders. Held me against his chest as he walked out of the room. I was only aware of his breathing. The thump of his heart.

Then he tucked me into a bed. Kissed my forehead.

“Rest.”

And then he was gone.

I woke up screaming. The nightmare had me in its grip—tight, merciless—refusing to let go. Until Kincade was shaking me awake.

That cold place in my head flared. Instant. Vicious.

No—

I clutched him anyway, forcing myself through it. Fighting the instinct that wanted me to lash out. Pain burned through my head. His arms came around me and the cold receded. Not gone, but... muted. Manageable.

I tried to get my erratic breathing under control. Tried to force my pumping heart to slow to a normal beat. The programming hummed under my skin, waiting. But his hand was solid at my back, fingers warm, real. Keeping the cold at bay.

But all I saw was the man’s face looming in my dreams. The way he grinned. The way they hooked me up to IVs and machines. The way—

Cashiel.

He was there. I remembered then. He’d stood at the edge of my hazy vision as I went under. Telling me to anchor myself to something.

But it was too late. He couldn’t save me. No one could. I couldn’t even save myself.