But the nightmares don’t seem to care about that.
Every night since we’ve been back, I’ve seen Heath when I close my eyes. Standing there, taunting me—hitting Dylan.
Cutting him.
Burning him.
Hurting him. Over and over again.
My heart rate begins to increase again, sweat beading at my temples. At the onset of the panic, I rest my hand on the back of the couch as I take a deep, steadying breath.
Lord, please help me breathe. Please help me.
Someone knocks on the door, and my pulse skyrockets. Black spots invade my vision, and I rapidly blink to try to clear them.
It’s not them. It can’t be them.
Logically, I know that’s true, but my body doesn’t seem to care about that.
“Emma?”
At Dylan’s voice on the other side of the door, I take another deep breath, then cross over to pull the door open with trembling fingers. The sight of him eases my panic just enough that the weight on my chest lessens.
“Hey there,” I greet, forcing a smile on my face.
He’s standing there, looking incredibly handsome and holding a bouquet of wildflowers placed inside a beautiful vase with golden veins threaded through the glass. “Hey. Sorry. I know you wanted to get settled, but I didn’t want to wait.”
“I’m actually really happy to see you,” I say, my bottom lip quivering as the tears fill my eyes again.
Dylan’s smile falls, his expression turning to concern in an instant. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, the emotion burning in my throat. Because I can’t trust myself to speak without completely losing it, I step aside and gesture for him to come inside. The moment he does, I shut and lock the door behind him.
I rarely used to lock my door during the day. Probably not smart, and not something I will ever forget to do again.
Dylan sets the vase down on the coffee table, then turns to me. “What is it?” he asks, reaching forward to brush some hair behind my ear.
The casual touches are getting easier for him—at least, that’s what he tells me—but I know there are moments he still struggles. Occasionally, I still see a bit of darkness reflected in his gorgeous hazel eyes.
Still, he’s doing a whole lot better than I am these days. I’m barely managing to shower, since the water on my skin is a burning reminder of the water rising in that safe as we sank to the bottom of the ocean.
“I’m just struggling. I don’t know how you do it.” I wipe the tears away.
“Do what?”
“Not let the fear consume you.” I whisper the words, almost ashamed to speak them. After all, I didn’t suffer the way he did. Not in that prison cave all those years ago, and not in the bottom of that ship.
He was the one who was burned, cut, and tortured.
Not me.
So why am I having such a hard time moving forward?
“For a long time, I let it consume me,” he says, stepping closer and running his hands over my arms.
“And now?”
“Now I’m actively choosing to give it to God. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s the closest I’ve felt to actual peace.” He moves in even closer, only inches from me now.
