Page 62 of Shatter

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I wake up screaming, though the sound is trapped in my throat, a jagged gasp that tastes like copper and old fear.

My skin is slick with cold sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged animal.

The dream—the memory—is still clinging to me.

I can still feel Desmond's weight, the suffocating pressure of him, the way the air disappeared when he pinned me down.

I'm shaking so hard the bedframe rattles, my breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches.

Then there is Hakon.

He's there instantly, but he isn't touching me.

He's a silhouette in the dim light of the clubhouse room, his presence a heavy, grounding force.

He doesn't reach for me, doesn't try to pull me into a hug that would feel like a trap.

He just stays within my line of sight, his voice a low, rumbling vibration that cuts through the fog of my panic.

"You're here," he says. "You're safe. Breathe with me."

I focus on the rise and fall of his broad chest.

I force my lungs to expand, dragging in the scent of leather, tobacco, and something uniquely him—something clean and masculine.

Slowly, the room comes back into focus.

The Raiders of Valhalla clubhouse.

The heavy curtains.

The safety of this room.

The shaking doesn't stop, but it changes from terror to a desperate, aching need to be touched by someone who won't break me.

I look at him, and the intensity in his eyes is enough to make my toes curl.

He knows.

He sees the wreckage of the nightmare, and he sees the hunger I'm trying to hide.

I want him.

I want to feel something other than fear, something that burns hot enough to cauterize the wounds Desmond left behind.

I shift on the sheets, the fabric rubbing against my bare skin.

I'm wearing nothing but one of his T-shirts, and it's ridden up around my hips, and as I move, I feel the dampness between my thighs.

I'm aching, a throbbing pressure that demands release.

Hakon moves closer, sliding onto the edge of the bed, but he keeps a respectful distance.

He doesn't make a move to claim me.

He waits.