Page 58 of Dreamscape Therapies

Chapter Twenty

Vincent

My eyes snap open, and I jerk upright so quickly that the room spins around me. For half a second, I have no idea where I am.

Yarn. Needles. Creepy smiles. A giant weaver. The horrible sensation of being pulled apart thread by thread.

Then reality settles back into place.

I'm in Jay's office, sitting on his couch. His warm fingers are wrapped around my wrist, and he's saying my name in that gentle voice of his, coaxing me back to the present. His grip isn't tight, but it's firm enough to be reassuring.

"I'm awake," I whisper, sucking in a shaky breath as I try to slow my breathing.

"Yeah."

His thumb brushes over my wrist once before he releases me.

He's being professional.

I kind of hate it.

I want him to keep touching me. I want him to pull me into his arms and tell me everything is going to be okay, even if it's a lie.

Instead, he sits back and folds his hands together.

"So, I think we might have a lead." His voice is clinical now. Unemotional to the point of being detached.

Great. Back to business.

"Yeah?" I ask, rubbing my eyes roughly.

"Do you know anyone who might want to punish you? Someone who's holding a grudge over something you did in the past?" He studies me carefully. "The weaver seemed convinced that you were the bad guy."

"I'm the bad guy?" I scoff, pushing myself off the couch. Sitting still suddenly feels impossible, so I start pacing the room. "How the fuck am I the bad guy when they're the one torturing me? Make it make sense, please."

"I didn't say you are the bad guy. I said the weaver thinks you are."

Jay tilts his head, his brow furrowing as he thinks. The expression is ridiculously cute and, thankfully, distracting enough to pull me out of my spiral for a moment.

"Who do you know who would want to hurt you?"

The question seems simple enough. Who would have a problem with me?

It should be easy to answer.

"Lots of people," I mutter with a bitter laugh. "I own a bar, Jay. I piss off a handful of people every week. It comes with the territory."

"That's not what I meant, Vincent."

He takes off his glasses and wipes them against the front of his shirt before putting them back on. When he looks at me again, there's something sharper in his expression.

"This isn't some nobody you met once and kicked out of your bar. This person is holding a serious grudge." He pauses. "Who would want you punished?"

The word hits differently.

Punished.

Not hurt. Not frightened.