He rubs his face, his head shaking. “Do me a favor, Reynolds. Never play poker.”
I give him a half-hearted chuckle, but the truth of it is that I was only half lying before. With the worst of the fatigue behind me, I fear what awaits me the next time I close my eyes as much as I fear hearing Cullen scream again. “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” I say softly.
For a moment, he says nothing, studying my face as my pulse continues to pound. Then slowly, he extends a honed arm toward me. “Come here.”
An invitation. An order. Whatever it is, my treacherous body responds to it with a wave of relief. Climbing up onto the bed, the mattress yielding gently beneath my knees, I let Cullen draw me up against him. As he settles onto his back, tucking my head securely under his chin, his clean male musk washes over me like a security blanket.
Closing my eyes, I brace myself for flashes of Undershirt throwing me into the house siding, but instead only feel the rise and fall of Cullen’s chest. With my face resting against him, the slowing steady beat of his heart chases my thoughts away. Putting my arm on his chest, I find myself slipping into unconsciousness, Cullen’s body slowly relaxing beside mine.
19
Sky
I wake to a mix of blissful softness urging me to slip back into unconsciousness pitted against the ache in every damn muscle in my body. The aches win, bringing me back to the surface against my will. I blink my eyes open, expecting to see my dingy, dark apartment, and instead catch sight of the opposite.
Sunlight pours in through windows so clean, it’s like there’s no pane, the brilliant snow-capped summit of Pikes Peak visible in the distance. God, what a view.
Cullen’s view.
Cullen’s house. Cullen’s bed.
I remember his hot, tense body easing into sleep around me, the feeling of being cocooned in safety settling around me as securely as the down comforter. Then the rest of the night rushes back as well. Falling asleep in Cullen’s bedroom. Waking. Finding him in the midst of one hell of a nightmare, his muscles coiled and flinching from invisible attack.
The investigative journalist inside me itches to know what can possibly haunt a man as strong as Cullen, but my heart just aches over the bitter helplessness of watching him thrash in pain. What do you see when you close your eyes, Cullen? What—or who—are you trying to shield in that nightmare of yours?
If he were anyone else—if he were a normal sane person—I’d just ask. But with Cullen, my gut tells me that what I saw last night wasn’t ever meant to be witnessed. If I go about figuring this out the wrong way, if I press too hard or open too wide, Cullen will ensure he is never ever vulnerable around me again. And for some reason, the thought of that happening bothers me.
A lot.
I know without having to look that Cullen is no longer there. The bed feels too large and empty. I wonder how much of his leaving while I still slept was to keep away the awkward moment of us staring at each other across the sheets. It’s for the best, of course, and yet a jolt of regret still shoots through my chest.
Blocking my eyes from the streaming sun, I swing my feet over the side of the bed and discover a clear garment bag hanging on the wrought iron railing of the headboard. A bright orange sticky label on the parcel declares Express Delivery: Overnight. Frowning at the clear film, I see a pair of feminine jeans, a long-sleeve top, and several other items that are most certainly not meant for Cullen’s body. And just in case that isn’t clear enough, a second—roughly scribbled—note attached to the bed reads: Reynolds.
My heart quickens slightly as I pull out the clothes to discover that they’re not just jeans, but Gucci’s, and in my exact size. Shit. I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled. But given that I came home in borrowed hospital scrubs last night, I’m not above pulling on the clothes—carefully hiding the tags instead of taking them off altogether. If Cullen can give me a ride back to my place, I can change, and he can return these.
Walking past a walk-in closet that rivals my basement apartment in size, I engage all my self-control not to give myself a tour of Cullen’s wardrobe, and instead veer off into the master bathroom. One step into the giant space and I’m barraged by a sea of gray-and-navy-blue tile. In the corner, a shower with a waterfall nozzle beckons me inside, especially since the cabinet above the toilet is full of white towels. Stopping first by the long ceramic vanity, I cringe at my reflection. I look how I feel—and I hurt.
Opening Cullen’s medicine cabinet, I pray the man has a stash of ibuprofen within reach. Instead, I’m presented with a bottle of aftershave, razor refills, deodorant, and, uh…an extra-large box of condoms. The one and only medication in sight is a bottle of prazosin. I pause, my gaze hovering on the typed prescription lettering. Yeah. I know prazosin. My father had the same damn prescription, and it did nothing to stop him from smacking me and my mom around.
Slowly closing the cabinet, I rub my face, the pieces of Cullen’s puzzle coming together. The nightmares. The short fuse. The way he’d reacted to the drunk at Hannigan’s. PTSD. The realization squeezes my chest, everything inside me simultaneously longing to wrap my arms comfortingly around him and run the hell away.
My mother always said my father’s mental health issues weren’t his fault. But they weren’t the fault of the seven-year-old me either, yet I was the one in the ER.
I shake myself free of my memories, really not wanting to think about all that right now. No, what I need right now is to shower and seek out the owner of my temporary accommodation.
Trekking through the hallway ten minutes later, I pass the living area with its awesome fireplace, but don’t see Cullen anywhere. I find a nice-size kitchen with a copper pot rack and gleaming stainless-steel appliances, but the room looks so immaculate that I wonder if it goes mostly unused. Finally, I follow a series of thumps and grunts to an exercise room overlooking a sunny terrace and find my host in the middle of walloping the crap out of a punching bag.
In a pair of loose gray shorts and a sweat-soaked sleeveless tee, Cullen dances around the punching bag with a predator’s deadly grace. Each time he moves, his coiled muscles shift smoothly beneath slick skin, the speed and force coming from each blow sending vibrations through the room. Thump. Thump. Thump.
For the first time, I notice Cullen’s ink—an emblem just below his left shoulder of an eagle perched on a shield with two anchors coming out of the bottom, plus a spiky tribal pattern that wraps his left bicep. With Cullen’s smooth motions and glistening sweat, the inked predator seems alive. Shit. Everything about him seems alive and potent and too damn beautiful for fairness. Watching a light dew of perspiration glisten over his forehead, I feel my panties dampen.
And knowing I slept with him in his bed last night?
I press my thighs together, taking several deep breaths to calm my body. Not good, Sky. Very not good.
Cullen jumps and turns in the air, landing a back kick that knocks the punching bag clear off the rafters above. “Fuck,” he mutters, walking over and heaving the punching bag up onto its hook as if the massive thing was just a potato sack. “How are you feeling, Reynolds?” he asks without turning around.
I swallow. Of course he knew I was there watching. “Fine.” Except for the fact the temperature feels like a hundred degrees just now. At least my voice didn’t come out all sultry like some Mae West knockoff. “You?”