nodded, no question. And for once, no one questioned my decision.
12
Ryland
Something wasn’t right.
Braxton’s easel loomed over me, draped in a sheet and looking like an oversized Halloween ghost. I sat up on his couch and listened for any clues to what had pinged my intuition wide awake. I’d been sleeping, or something close to it, since Brax went to bed shortly after we’d put Ian in cuffs. Brax had been exhausted and immediately flopped onto his stomach, mumbled something about waffles, and fell fast asleep with Domino curled up beside his face. I’d wanted to crawl in beside him and hold him, but there were boundaries to be respected…and he’d been so sprawled out there was no room in the bed.
The couch was good for me.
It was comfortable and warm enough I could sleep in my underwear, but it had taken me a good hour to doze off, like a watchdog on high alert for any sounds. I didn’t really think Ian’s friend would come for Brax—and anyone attempting a break-in at the Vanguard Tower was a bold idiot and doomed to face off against some of the toughest guys in the city. But if anyone was going to be watching over him, I wanted it to be me.
Something had woken me up from my light sleep, and I strained to listen for anything unusual. Wind rattled the huge windows. The easel loomed overhead, silent and imposing. The smell of paint, linseed oil, and Brax’s own sweet, vanilla scent was a heavy concoction and made me feel a little light-headed until I could hear my own pulse. Maybe I’d woken up from the excitement of being in Brax’s apartment again.
I rubbed my face as I switched on a lamp by the couch, and took in the gigantic, covered easel at the other side of his studio space. There were two stools, a rolling tray, and a low coffee table between me and it, all covered in brushes, bottles, paint and palettes. The space was a mess, but cozy, not chaotic. The easel owned the space from its sheer size and obvious importance. The sheet over the top of the easel told me there was a work in progress hidden, and in my midnight delirium, the whole room seemed to curve toward it.
I loved Brax’s artwork, and my heart stuttered at the possibility of peeking at a piece he hadn’t yet finished; seeing the process of the talented man was very tempting. I’d spent hours staring at the painting he’d given me for my birthday, wondering which lines he had put down as the initial foundation and how the picture was built up from there, or whether it just all came together at once.
My fingers tingled. Maybe I could just take a look at what he was working on…
Suddenly a thud and a long, drawn-out groan came from down the hall, and I was up in a flash.
Brax’s room was nearly pitch black, except for a tiny peach-shaped nightlight by his bed. It cast him in a pinky-orange glow as he cried out with his eyes squeezed shut. My chest tightened and I gripped the doorframe, holding myself back from rushing in there. He was having a nightmare, not being attacked—he was a grown man, and it was just a bad dream.
But just as I was pulling the door closed, Brax let out a cry and it cut through me. I rushed to his side.
“Hey, Brax.” I knelt by the bed and shook him gently. “Brax, wake up. It’s just a dream. Wake up.”
He gasped like a man drowning. His eyes flew open and his face twisted in disgust until his gaze focused and he grabbed my arm.
“Ry.” He said my name like a sigh of relief, but his tight grip told me he was still terrified.
“Just a dream.” I smoothed his hair back and found his forehead sweaty. “You’re okay.”
His hold on me tightened to painful levels, and he yanked me forward into a tight hug.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly.
I held him close to let him know there was nothing to apologize for. His pulse thumped so hard I could feel it through my own chest, double-time against my own heartbeat, and I rubbed his back in an effort to slow it.
We embraced until he relaxed the death-grip he had on my muscles to something more like a rock climber trying to hold on for their life.
“Fuck.” Brax groaned into my shoulder. “It was a bad, bad dream.”
I rubbed his