Stoking the Fire (Salus Security #1) - Teodora Kostova Page 0,17
precious. I fall apart in his arms, and he holds me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear.
I’m shaken awake by a noise. When I snap my eyes open, my heart is pounding, my bliss broken. Alec’s sleeping restlessly next to me, his limbs spasming, his head thrashing on the pillow. Skin glistening with sweat, he mumbles something I can’t understand.
I’ve only ever seen him have a nightmare once before, and it was brief—I nudged him awake, and he calmed down. Thinking about it, he never slept much, always up before me or lying in bed wide awake.
Seeing him like this makes me wonder if his sleeping habits have anything to do with preventing nightmares.
“Alec,” I say, my voice hoarse. I clear my throat and try again. “Alec. Baby. Wake up.” I shake his shoulder gently, my hand resting right above the gruesome gunshot wound scar.
Is he dreaming about the war?
He mumbles something else, throwing his arm over his eyes.
“Alec!” I say more firmly. It hurts seeing him like this. Lost and hurting and so out of control.
He startles, his eyes flying open. He stares at me as if he doesn’t recognize me.
“It’s me, baby.” I place a hand on his cheek. It’s hot and wet. “It’s just a nightmare.”
His eyes focus on my face, his features relaxing.
“Sorry,” he says, averting his gaze.
“It’s okay.” I lean down and kiss his cheek. “Would you like some water?”
He shakes his head and turns away from me.
I spoon against his back, but it remains rigid under my touch.
Eventually, I manage to fall asleep again, but when I wake up, Alec’s side of the bed is empty.
I can hear him in the kitchen, the smell of coffee in the air. My studio is small enough so that when I lift my head off the mattress, I see him walking around, a cup of steaming coffee in hand. I also see an empty cup by the sink. How long has he been awake to be on his second cup of coffee already?
“Hey,” I say.
He startles as if he hasn’t heard me move, which is odd.
“Hi.” He tries to smile, but it comes out like a grimace. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
I lie back down while Alec prepares my coffee. He brings it over to me, and I sit up, back against the headboard.
He sits on the edge of the bed. He’s wearing only his boxers, and my eyes get drawn to the scar on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
I place a hand on his knee. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” A muscle in his jaw tics. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He shrugs as if it’s not a big deal. “Not much to say, really. Sometimes I have bad dreams. Doesn’t everyone?”
When he finally lifts his gaze to mine, it’s guarded and darker than usual.
I decide not to push. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready. Nobody makes Alec Bonovich do something he doesn’t want to do. Asking more questions will only lead to an argument, and I really don’t want to argue with him.
My stomach rumbles, claiming my attention. I barely had any food last night, too anxious to stomach anything.
“Waffles?” Alec asks, a shadow of a smile on his lips.
I nod eagerly. “I’ll help you.”
He arches an eyebrow dubiously, but doesn’t protest when I follow him to the kitchen.
I help by reading the news on my tablet, inserting my own comments here and there. Alec laughs just as I intend, his stiff posture relaxing. My phone beeps with a text, the screen lighting up. I glance at it and see Adri has sent me a link.
It’s for an article about Senator Hugh Rowley in Day Break—a prominent political magazine. What draws my attention is the picture and name on top of the article: Adrian Laskin, investigative journalist. On the photo, Adri's face is serious, just a hint of a smile, and it looks professionally done.
Me: WTF? Is that your side gig??
Adri: Yes.
Me: I need to know everything!
Adri: Of course you do.
Me: Lunch?
Adri: Sure.
Alec places a plate full of waffles in front me, eyeing me curiously.
“So, remember when I told you Adri's been cagey and super secretive about this side gig he got?” I turn the tablet toward him, showing him the article. “He just published his first piece as an investigative journalist!” I say, beaming at him.
He glances at the article. “His first piece is about Rowley? That’s a bold move.”