I wake up smothered by Dexter. His pulse is as frantic as it was last night when he brought himself to ecstasy, and his skin is misted with just as much sweat. There is just one difference: the moans he is releasing now aren’t pleasurable. He sounds frightened.

“Ugh!” I grunt, nudging him with my elbow.

He stirs for a moment, his moan switching to a pained groan. I roll over, giving me a birds’ eye view of his handsome face and rippled body. The deep groove between his brows and the vicious snarl of his lips reveal my assumptions are accurate. He is having a nightmare.

Recalling the violence Ashlee reacted with when I woke her during a nightmare, I cradle Dexter’s twitching jaw before soothing him like a mother would a child. I hum a joyful tune while running my fingers through the dark hairs furled around his temples and down his clenched jaw. It feels natural to take care of him. It feels right. He took care of me last night, so it is only right I return the favor.

Although I would have preferred our night end with Dexter pleasing me as he had pleased himself, I slept well. I don’t recall the transfer from our car to the hotel. I felt so safe curled up on Dexter’s lap like a cat being stroked by its owner, I slept like a baby. I feel the most revived I’ve ever been. I feel like a million bucks.

The pleasurable hum thrumming through my body dulls when Dexter suddenly snatches my wrist. He tears it away from his face, his hold so firm it feels like my wrist is about to snap in two.

“Oww.” I release a painful groan, wordlessly advising him he is hurting me. I like having his hands on me, but not like this. This is the touch of hate—not love.

“What was that?” Dexter growls, glancing past my shoulder with the eyes of a madman. “Who are you?” He appears to be awake, but his eyes are so lifeless, he may not be.

I hum a few more chords of the “Hush Little Baby” lullaby I was singing earlier, hoping the gentle tune will draw him from his nightmare.

With each note, Dexter’s grip on my wrist tightens. By the time I reach the mockingbird part of the song, his fury is uncontained.

“Stop it!” he screams, shaking me. His anger is so white hot, spit flies out of his mouth and lands on my cheeks. “Stop it!”

He drops my wrist from his grip so he can slap his head. He hits himself so hard, I’m certain his brain is rattling in his skull. If he keeps increasing the intensity as he is, he will kill himself.

I put myself in the line of fire by launching over his skull to protect his brain with my body. The first few pounds of his fists on my back cause pain to surge through my body, but it’s nothing compared to the excruciating roars erupting from Dexter’s mouth. He sounds like a wild animal, like his heart is being torn in two.

It takes several more hits and many distressed cries before the scent of my skin removes him from his nightmare.

“Megan. . .?” The horror in his voice makes tears prick my eyes. He nestles his nose between my breasts before inhaling deeply. “Megan.”

No words. Even if I could build up the courage to speak as I did last night, there is not a single word I could express right now. I’m too scared. I’m not frightened of Dexter; I’m petrified of the absolute horror radiating out of him when he peers up at me.

Realizing no words will ever comfort him, I return to running my fingers through his wild hair. I gather the droplets of sweat beading on his temples before working on returning the color to his cheeks.

Within a matter of minutes, he is back asleep.

When I awake several hours later, I am alone—again. While scooting across the monstrous-sized bed, I take in the opulence I failed to register twice last night. It is beautiful, but nothing could have taken my focus off the splendid image I first awoke to, not even a room fit for a queen. And although my second awakening wasn’t filled with sunshine and unicorns, it was just as important as the first. It connected Dexter and me in a way I’ve never experienced. He needed me. I was there for him.

I just hope it wasn’t in vain.

After snapping at the voice in my head to shut up, I stand from the bed. The high thread count sheets feel like clouds caressing my skin when I gather them around my naked form to view the opulence surrounding me. I pretend I’m exploring, but in reality, I am hunting for clues to where Dexter went. He wouldn’t leave me defenseless. He cares for me.

I freeze when undoubtable evidence is presented before me. Dexter is sitting at a large, rectangular table, eating a croissant from a pile of many. When he notices me standing at the end of the table gawking at him, he jerks up his chin, requesting for me to join him.

I do, albeit hesitantly. It isn’t because I’m not hungry—I am starving. It is the look Dexter is giving me. He seems put off by my approach instead of appreciative.

Dexter’s eyes lift to mine when I fall into the chair next to him with a sigh. I am so confused. Last night, he looked at me like I had granted his every wish. His look this morning isn’t one tenth of its strength. Since I was medicated for so long, I’ve never had to handle the emotions I’ve dealt with the past three days. I’m sure over time things will settle down, I just wish they would move along more quickly. Being this confused can’t be healthy. I am more imbalanced now than I was at Meadow Fields.

Dexter doesn’t help the situation when he drags my hair away from my neck with a quick brush of his hand. He sucks in a sharp breath when he spots the faint bruise extending from one ear to the other. It isn’t a disappointed gasp. It is similar to the ones he released last night before streams of cum rocketed from his cock.

“We’ll ice your neck after we’ve eaten. See if we can lessen the bruising.” His voice is hoarse, either from the dry bagel he is attempting to swallow or remorse. I’m unsure which.

Nodding in agreement, I pluck a Danish pastry from a basket in the middle of the table. My calorie-laden breakfast drops onto the gold-rimmed plate in front of me when Dexter snatches my wrist. My teeth gnaw together as a jolting pain rockets up my arm. Although his hold isn’t as painful as it was last night, the inch-wide bruise banding my wrist makes it seem as if it is.

“Who did that?” Dexter asks as his wild eyes dart between my wrist and my face. “Who marked you?”

I hide my hand under the tablecloth when he abruptly stands from his chair. Wood scraping across marble floors sounds through my ears when he pushes back from the table like a man in a hurry. I don’t know where he is rushing to, but he won’t get far if he continuously paces the same three steps.

Several minutes pass with him wearing a hole in the carpet before his eyes return to mine. They are even more desolate than normal. “Was it someone at the hotel? Did someone here hurt you?”

He stops shoving his fingers through his hair when I nod. “Who?” His one word is delivered so violently, it sounds like an entire sentence. “Was it the bellhop? Concierge? Who?”

He whispers threats under his breath, promising harm to the person responsible for my injuries. He is going to cut them, then castrate them before smashing their teeth in with his bare hands.

His pledge of protection excites me. . . until I realize who they are directed at.

I drop my eyes to my plate, ensuring he can’t see my eyes. With Dexter so caught up on plotting the demise of the person responsible for my bruise, he leaves me undisturbed for several long minutes.

I want to say I use the time well. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. My stomach is too twisted up to do anything. Even more so when Dexter places his hand under my chin to raise my downcast head two seconds later.

“Who hurt you. . .?” His words trail off when he spots the dishonesty in my eyes. He releases a growl so deep, two towns over hear it. “Don’t lie to me, Megan.”

When I remain quiet, he raises his hand, as if he is going to hit me. I know it is a ploy to force me to answer him, but it frightens me so much, I start humming a tune before I can stop myself.

Dexter’s hand falls from the air like a bomb, the joyful lullaby weighing down his arm as if it is made of concrete. He takes a step back, equally sickened and remorseful. “I hurt you? Me?”

His throats works hard to swallow when I hesitantly nod. I don’t want to hurt him, but I also don’t want to discover the repercussions if I lie to him.

It takes a few seconds for Dexter to read the honesty in my eyes. When he does, he goes into a violent rage. Dishware clatters to the ground as a painful roar erupts from his mouth. “You lied! You’re a liar!” He shreds the dining room apart, not the least bit concerned he is damaging the hotel’s property .

I understand his quest. I underwent the same form of therapy when I discovered Nick’s son was born healthy. I spiked his fiancée’s tea with so much mistropol, she should have bled out on the table. I was so angry at Jenni and Nick, I took out my fury on their unborn son.

What I did was wrong. Nick’s son didn’t deserve the brunt of my fury.

Dexter shouldn’t forget the effects of his childhood, either. I’m not a shrink, but I’ve spent enough time with them to analyze that Dexter’s condition is a result of his childhood. From his reaction to a lullaby, it may have even started when he was a baby—perhaps even in the womb.

It’s not absurd to think this way. Some people are born to lead; others are born like us.

We’re not broken; we’re unique.

I wait for Dexter’s outrage to subdue before standing from my chair. His violence touched every inch of the dining room, leaving only the chair I was sitting in unscathed.

He balks when I remove his hands from his face so I can crawl into his lap. Because of the difference in our heights and frames, it isn’t a hard feat. It’s just foreign. I’ve never wanted to nurture someone as much as I do him. My daddy said I am like my mom, that I don’t have an empathetic bone in my body. Dexter proves he was a liar. I care about him so much, I’ll do anything to stop his pain.

Anything at all.

Dexter’s heart pounds my ear when I nuzzle into his chest. It’s so furious I’m afraid it will burst my eardrum. Its frantic pace adds to the danger looming in the air, but in a calm, nurturing way. I know he’ll never hurt me. The way he left me unscathed during his violent uproar proves this without a doubt.

I don’t care what the doctors’ diagnosis is. I know the truth. Dexter is my protector. My lover. The man slowly reviving my veins with blood. It might be a little murky, but it is still lifesaving blood all the same. He will take care of me, and I will do the same for him.

Dexter’s tormented eyes bounce between mine when I raise my hand to his face to remove the strands of hair stuck to his temples. After clearing them away, I glide my fingers down his cheeks and across his plump lips. I comfort him without the lullaby I used last night, finally recognizing the tune is partly to blame for his psychotic break.

I caress him for what feels like hours but is more minutes. Just when I think he will never return my affections, his hand traces the bumps of my spine. He draws me closer to him with every contusion he glides past. His silence should be off-putting, but it isn’t. He doesn’t need to express gratitude for my comfort. I would do it even if he requested that I stop.

It is what a woman does for the man she loves.