Page 113 of Nyx

He hovers for a long moment as if he isn't sure what he should be doing either, and his unease seems to settle mine somehow.

"You can sit," I tell him, pointing to the recliner. "Or I can move, since this is going to be your bed?"

He shakes his head as he drops down into the recliner. "I won't be sleeping tonight."

"That doesn't seem healthy," I say. "When was the last time you got a full night's sleep?"

His eyes are on me, and as much as I want to like the attention, especially after feeling the warmth of his body earlier, I've spent many years trying my best not to attract attention from anyone. It's an unfamiliar feeling, and I don't know how to react.

"Not in a very long time," he offers. "I'm not very good at sleeping."

"Insomnia?" I ask, regretting the question immediately.

Asking questions gives others permission to ask you questions, and that's one more thing I've avoided for years. I don't want to seem rude, but discussing my life and history hasn’t been comfortable for me for a very long time.

"Hard to turn my brain off, I guess," he answers.

I nod, fully understanding what he means because it's something I've struggled with as well.

I point the remote toward the TV, hoping the distraction works.

"Any preferences?" I ask again.

"I don't really watch TV," he says, his eyes drifting from me to the TV.

"I don't either," I confess without offering further explanation.

Thankfully, he doesn't ask me what I do with my time because I can only imagine the frown he'd point in my direction when I tell him I worry, pace, and plan my next escape.

I pick a show about river otters, and within the first couple of minutes, I'm fully engaged and grinning at their antics.

A soft melody plays in the background, with the animals' sounds and noises as the primary focus. There isn't even commentary, and I think I love the fact that viewers just get to enjoy watching them exist in life.

"Do you work at the women's shelters because of the anonymity it offers or because of your past?"

I freeze at the sound of his voice.

I'm not so engaged with the show that I forgot he was sitting in the same room. I don't know that my body would ever let me relax enough to be surprised by someone's voice, but I was praying there would be no questions, no curiosity from him.

"Both, I think," I answer honestly, surprised that I don't feel like I'm being pressured to respond the way I sometimes do when women at work ask me questions.

If Max was able to find out all the things they told me earlier at the clubhouse, then this man has to know details about my past. That alone should worry me, but for some reason it doesn't.

I don't get the feeling that his knowledge of what happened to me is going to be used against me. I don't think Max would be so careless in his research that it led Graham to Farmington either.

I keep my eyes on the TV, the urge to explain coming over me.

Usually, I wouldn't offer a thing. I'd redirect and avoid the question altogether, so wanting him to know my reasoning is incredibly unfamiliar to me.

Instead of digging in and refusing, I open my mouth, the words just coming naturally as if I'm talking to a therapist or a close friend, two things I haven't had in a very long time.

"I reached out to a shelter before attempting to leave Graham," I begin, my eyes dropping to my lap as my fingers tangle together.

Talking about what happened that day is more than a little difficult. I tried explaining it to my parents while I was still in the hospital, and at first they listened, but as time passed, they were less inclined to see my side of things. I think that hurt almost as much as the physical pain of being assaulted. I fully expected them to be on my side through it all, but they were quick to put distance between themselves and those events. It felt like a betrayal, and still to this day, I haven't forgiven them.

"I was waiting for a woman from the shelter to pick me up when he came home from a trip he was supposed to be taking and found me packed and ready to go," I continue. "After his sentencing, I knew I couldn't stay in town. I went to another shelter in another state, praying no one recognized me. I never share much about my story because I don't want people to know who I am, but there were so many brave women there. Their stories were so sad. I heard a lot of my own journey of abuse in their words. Being at that first shelter helped me realize and understand the depth of my abuse. I knew what Graham had been doing wasn't okay. I knew I had to get away, but I had no idea the extent of trauma that could be caused without a single hit or any type of physical abuse. Graham wasn't physically violent with me until the day he came home early. The helplessness and hopelessness just seemed to cling to them. I wanted to help them in any way I could."

"They're lucky to have you," he offers.