Kenta swears and jumps to his feet, jogging out of the room. For a few seconds, I sit frozen on the couch. I’m not sure what to do. Has someone come inside the suite? Do I need to hide?
The screaming suddenly stops, and I hear Kenta murmuring something. He doesn’t sound scared at all. Just kind of… soothing. I slip off the couch and follow him to the bedroom. When I push open the door, the room is dark. The curtains are pushed open, and I can see the LA sky storming outside. Lightning flickers again, illuminating Kenta standing over the bed, talking softly.
“You’re okay, man. You’re good.” There’s a broken sobbing noise, and ice slips down the back of my throat.
“What’s wrong with him?” I demand. “Is he hurt?”
Kenta glances over his shoulder. “Briar, he’s fine, you don’t have to see this.”
I ignore him, pushing into the room. Matt is sitting hunched on the bed, breathing hard. He has a hand twisted in the hem of Kenta’s shirt, like he’s trying to hold the man in place.
“What’s wrong?” I ask again.
Kenta sighs. “Nothing. He just had a night terror. They’ve been getting worse recently.” His lips twist into a wry smile. “Nice little leftover from our time in the force.”
Matt lets go of Kenta and runs a heavy hand through his thick hair. He’s still dressed in dress pants and a crumpled shirt, and his skin is flushed and sweaty. “Briar…” he rasps. “I’m sorry.”
I stare at him. “For what? Did you wet the bed, or something? It’s fine, I don’t mind having an incontinent bodyguard.”
He looks up at me, panting. Heat is climbing up his neck and cheeks. He looks completely humiliated, and I don’t know why. Kenta glances at me awkwardly, like he’s embarrassed that I’m here.
“What?” I demand. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Matt gulps in another breath and hangs his head. “Sorry you had to see that.”
My mouth drops. “Sorry I had to see it? What the fuck does that mean? It wasn’t particularly hard to see. I’m sorry you had to experience it.”
He shakes his head, shame written all over his face.
Anger snaps through me. “Oh, for God’s sake,” I mutter, stomping forward. “Can I have a hug?”
He blinks, freezing. “What?”
“A hug. I doubt you’ve been given many in your life, but I’m sure you’ve heard of the concept. I want one.”
He bristles. “I don’t need—”
“This isn’t about you, it’s about me. You’re right. Seeing you have a nightmare was so traumatic I need comforting. So do it.”
He’s still for a moment, then tentatively opens his arms. I climb onto his lap and curl up against his chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kenta smile, shutting the door behind him. I bury my face in Matt’s sweaty neck. “Don’t apologise, you utter fucking dipshit.”
“I thought you were supposed to be a bitch,” he murmurs, lightly laying a hand on my back.
“I am.” I put my cheek on his chest and frown up at him. “A nice person wouldn’t have called you a dipshit, would they?” He smiles tightly, but he still looks embarrassed. I’m frustrated. “Why are you acting so ashamed? I had a panic attack and, like, dissolved on a public bathroom floor in front of you. From what I can gather about your old job, it would be weirder if you weren’t traumatised.” I grab his hand and put it on my head. “You hug like a mannequin. Stroke my hair.”
He snorts and starts running his fingers through my hair. “There’s kind of a don’t ask, don’t tell policy in the military, when it comes to this stuff. People don’t really trust you to carry a gun if they find out you’re screwed in the head.”
“Well, you’re not in the military anymore, you work for me. So stop being so awkward, it’s annoying me.”
He muffles another laugh. “How are you making this about you?”
“I’m a self-obsessed diva, remember?” I shove at him until we’re both lying down. We’re still for a bit. I feel his battering heartbeat slowly ease up through his damp shirt.
I don’t know exactly what I’m doing. I’m still mad at Matt. But I can be mad at him and also care that he’s hurting.
“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” he mutters into my hair. “I’m really, really sorry.”
“Kenta explained what I did wrong. I still think you could’ve, you know, spoken to me like a human being instead of dragging me away like a naughty toddler.”
He nods slowly. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know. I’m sorry. I…” He licks his lips. “It has been brought to my attention that I do this, around a flashback. I can’t stand being close to people, so I snap at them to make them go away. I don’t mean to, I just get overwhelmed, I guess.”
“Wait.” I peel back to look at him. “Are you telling me that you’re not always such a massive prick?”
“I’m always a prick,” he concedes. “But you’ve definitely seen the worst of me since we met. I’m sorry.” He traces a circle on my back.
“Don’t apologise. I think it’s kind of cute.” I tuck into him. “We have matching unhealthy coping mechanisms. How adorable is that?”
He huffs a laugh. We listen to the storm rumble outside. The rain is getting heavier, hammering against the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. I look out at the grey skyline. “No fair. Your room has a better view. Can I please remind you that I am the Very Important Person? You’re just regular, unimportant people.”
He grunts. “Yours faces the back of the hotel. Less threat.”
“Oh.” Thunder suddenly claps outside, and he startles, his whole body stiffening. I flatten my hand on his chest, stroking over his heartbeat as he relaxes again. “What are your triggers?”
He glares at me.
I roll my eyes. “What? It kind of seems like pertinent information. I don’t want to accidentally hurt you.”
He shakes his head, a small jerk. “It’s not really anything you could do. I…” He trails off, his jaw working. “Damp places. Some scents. Glen’s voice, sometimes, especially when he yells. Which I guess is why he keeps so damn quiet, nowadays. Sometimes, just letting my mind wander is enough. But it’s not like a button you press. I can be fine for months, and then—” he raises an eyebrow.
I try to process all of that. “Scents. Any of mine bother you?”
He snorts. “Yeah, Chanel Number Three takes me to a really dark place. No, princess. It’s blood, mostly.”
“Blood? What are you, a shark?”
“If there’s enough of it, you can smell it pretty clear. Sometimes I feel like I can never get the smell of it out of my nose.” He dips his face into my hair. “You always smell like cake,” he says hoarsely. I curve around him, feeling his breath flutter against my neck.
“Any more?”
“The strongest…” he pulls a face, like he hates the word, “trigger, it’s a feeling. An emotion. Feeling like I made a mistake, and someone else is going to get hurt because of it.”
I don’t say anything.
He heaves a breath. “On our last tour, I was the patrol leader. The others followed my orders, and I screwed up, I made a mistake. We got captured. We were imprisoned and tortured until a hostage recovery team showed up. But our captors only tortured the others, not me. They—they starved them, then gave me food in front of them, and beat them if I refused to eat. They choked them. Cut them. They killed my teammate Damon in front of me. Dragged it out for weeks. Never thought I’d be relieved to see a friend die.”
Horror wells up inside me. I don’t even want to think of what it must have been like for him. There are things too dark to let yourself imagine. “How long were you there?” I whisper.
It’s too much. He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again, his whole body freezing. I stay still in his arms, breathing softly until he relaxes again. There are tears in his eyes. He’s shaking. “Sorry,” he mutters, wiping his face. “Shit. Few months.”
“Do you want me to call you a dipshit again?” I offer.
He closes his eyes. “Please.”
“Okay. You little dipshit.” The word comes out far too gentle. I roll over and reach up to stroke the blush touching his cheeks. “Kenta said you’re getting worse.”
“Kenta talks too much.”
“He’s worried about you.”
He’s silent for a bit. “It’s not been this bad in about four years,” he says eventually. “I used to have flashbacks maybe once or twice a month. The last week or so, it’s been every damn day. Multiple times a day.” His voice breaks a bit, and he clears his throat. “I… don’t know what’s happening.”
Lightning flashes outside, illuminating him. For a moment, he doesn’t look like my big, strong bodyguard. He doesn’t look like an ex-soldier. He just looks like a scared little boy. My heart hurts. I run my fingers through his hair. “You don’t want to go to therapy?”
He sucks in a sigh between his teeth. “Jesus Christ, not you, too. Kenta gets on my back about this every bloody time. No.”
“Why? Therapy’s great. I use it all the time.”
“Do I need a reason?” He snaps. “It’s my goddamn brain, if I don’t want some bloody shrink poking around in there, that’s my business.”
His words are angry, but he doesn’t pull away from me. We just lie there in silence for a while. My eyelids get heavy. I feel his breathing deepen against my neck, as if he’s about to fall back to sleep.
“What if it’s me?” I whisper.
He flinches. “What?”
“I think I’m the reason your PTSD symptoms are getting worse.”
He snorts. “How the Hell would that work? You don’t exactly look like any of the guys that caught us, princess.” He reaches out to touch my hair. “The face, maybe. But none of them were blonde.”
“Ha, ha. The timelines match up though, right?” I rub my fingers into the hem of his shirt. “You got worse after meeting me.”
“It’s probably just the stress of being around someone so terrible,” he says flatly. “You’re Hell on my nerves, woman.”
I roll over to look him in the face. “I am, though, aren’t I? That’s what I mean. I think when you worry about my safety, it triggers that feeling. That feeling that if you make a mistake, I’ll get hurt.”
He shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense. I’ve never had this issue with a client before. Not in years.”
I smile against his skin. “Well then,” I say casually. “I guess you must just care about me.”
He scoffs. “I do not.”
“No? What other explanation do you have?” I nuzzle into his collar. “I think you do. I think you care about me.”
“No.”
I nudge his throat with my nose. “I think you like me.”
I feel his jaw flex as he grits his teeth. “You’re a job. That’s it.”
“Yeah? You got very angry, earlier.” I thread my fingers through his hair. “Almost like you’re emotionally invested.”
“It would look bad if you got murdered by your stalker. You’re very high profile; I’d never live it down.”
I run my hand down to his collar, fiddling with the buttons. “I think the thought of me getting hurt kills you,” I mutter. He doesn’t say anything, watching as I slowly pop the button on his collar. “Because, no matter how much you call me bossy,” I undo the next button, exposing a triangle of hard, tanned skin, “or spoiled,” the next button goes, “or a diva,” I slide my hand slowly under the thin fabric of his shirt, and watch a shudder roll through him. “I think you actually really like me,” I whisper.
He reaches out suddenly, grabbing my hand. I look down at our linked fingers, my heart starting to pound.
“It does,” he says, his voice rasping. His eyes burn into mine. “It kills me to think of you getting hurt, Briar.”
Something in me softens. I flatten my hand across his bare chest. “I’ll try to stay out of trouble. Promise.”
He snorts. “You couldn’t stay out of trouble if your life depended on it.”
“I said I’d try.”
He turns my hand over, running his thumb over the delicate skin of my wrist. “Did I scare you?” He asks quietly.
“At the event? No. I wanted to stab your eye out with my stiletto.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you tried, the way you were kicking me.” He shakes his head. “When I screamed.”
I frown. “I wasn’t scared of you. I was just scared someone was hurting you.”
His mouth twitches. “Sounds like you care about me too, then.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? Because you’re in my bed. In my arms. Cuddling me after a nightmare.” I try to pull away, and he squeezes me closer. “Doesn’t seem like something you would do for someone you hated.”
“I despise you,” I inform him primly.
He leans closer until his lips brush against my ear, and I’m overwhelmed by the soft, sweet smell of his laundry detergent. “I’m sure.”
“I do. You’re an asshole—”
“You’re a diva,” he counters easily.
“You’re high-handed,” I continue. “Bossy.”
“So are you.”
I scowl. “I’m not bossy, I am your boss, you utter knob.”
“Spoiled,” he lists. “Demanding…”
“I’m assertive, not demanding, that’s so bloody sexist—” I break off as he suddenly rolls us both over, pressing me to the mattress. His weight is hot and heavy over my body. I can’t breathe. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I unconsciously lick my lips.
“Rude,” he adds, his voice soft.
“Only to people who deserve it,” I whisper. “I can be nice.”
He reaches out to touch my hair, his blue eyes gleaming dark, then curves his hand behind my head. Heat thrums through my body as he strokes my cheekbone with his thumb. “I don’t think I’d like you nice,” he mutters.
Then he sinks his hands in my hair and kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before.
