I open my eyes and suck in a deep breath. I’m dizzy and disoriented. Strong arms are wrapped around me, holding me tight. My cheek is pressed against a warm, bare chest. I feel safe until I remember.

Toby tried to kill me.

He’s dangerous and deranged.

I panic and struggle against him, pushing against his chest. He immediately drops his hands and I scramble to the other side of the bed.

“Don’t touch me!” I yell. “I’m warning you.”

I’m breathing hard and trying to assess the situation. Is Toby going to come after me again? To reach the door, I’ll have to run past him. He’s fast and big. There’s no way I can make it if he comes after me.

He’s a killer.

Toby doesn’t say a word or offer any explanation as to what just happened. Instead, he’s sitting there on the bed watching me carefully. His face is filled with utter and complete despair. I’ve never seen so much pain in a man’s eyes. He holds up the palms of his hands slowly to show that he’s not going to hurt me again and tugs the sheet up around his waist to cover up.

“Maggie…,” he whispers quietly, as if he no longer has the right to say my name. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear. Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.”

He starts to move across the bed toward me.

“Stop!” I cry out, holding up a hand. “Stay right there. Don’t come any closer. Please.” I’m physically shaking.

He freezes. “I won’t move,” he says. “I’m awake now, and I promise I’ll never hurt you again. That wasn’t me, Maggie. I’m almost afraid to ask, but I need to know. Exactly what happened here?”

He’s awake and lucid now. His eyes are wide and clear.

“You really don’t know?” I ask.

Toby shakes his head. “No. I can only imagine. I remember going to bed last night and the next thing I know, I woke up with my hands wrapped around your neck.”

“You were having a terrible nightmare,” I say. “I could hear you all the way through the walls into the living room. Muttering in your sleep and thrashing around on the bed. It was freaking Sadie out, so she woke me up whining. I came in here to see what was going on. You seemed very agitated so I tried to wake you up by touching your arm. That’s when you flipped me over, pinned me down on the bed, and started choking me.”

My hands unconsciously rub the painful spots on my neck where his hands were. “I tried to stop you,” I continue, my voice trembling. “To fight back. You’re too strong. I couldn’t breathe and the next thing I knew, I must’ve passed out cold.”

He turns away from me and drops his head in his hands. “I can’t bear to look at you,” he says. “Your neck is covered by bright red marks left by my fingers. It kills me inside to know that I put those there. What kind of a monster am I? I’ve never laid a finger on a woman before and never would. Not if I knew what I was doing.”

We sit there for a minute breathing heavily, with neither one of us saying a word. The incident has shocked and traumatized us both too much to speak.

“We should get you to a hospital,” he finally says. “To make sure you’re okay. Are you in pain? I’ll drive you in my truck. Or if you’re afraid of me, I’ll give you my keys. What am I saying? Or course you’re fucking terrified of me. Either way, you should have a doctor examine your neck. And get an x-ray or something.”

For a moment, I consider going to the emergency room then decide against it. All they would do is quickly separate me from Toby and ask a million questions about what happened. ER workers are trained to spot domestic abuse. If I didn’t look like a victim right now, nobody would.

There’s no way we could show up at the hospital together. The media would be there in minutes, and what a nightmare that would be. There’s nothing they would love more than this story.

The savior turned abuser in twenty-four hours.

How could I explain the incident to anyone when I really don’t know what happened myself? If it came right down to it, would I tell them the truth? Or would I protect Toby?

One look at his devastated face and I know the answer.

“No, I’m too upset to go to a hospital,” I say. “There’s nothing they could do anyway. Except maybe arrest you and cart you off to jail.”

He nods and looks away. “That’s what I deserve. Or far worse for what I did.”

“Did you know it was me you were choking?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer and rubs his bleak eyes with the palms of his hand.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this,” I continue. “I understand. But considering you almost killed me, I think you owe me an explanation. Make me understand what happened here. Right now, I’m scared to death of you. Being in the same room with you is freaking me out.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” he answers. “I thought you were the enemy. Like you said, I was having a nightmare. They call them waking nightmares. Or reliving a real-life experience. It’s hard to explain. The nightmares I have are so real. They go on for hours and I can’t wake up. I’ve never had this happen before though.”

“What about when other girls have stayed over?”

“I’ve never let that happen,” he says. “Not since I came back home from Afghanistan. My number one rule is I always sleep alone.” He lets out a rueful laugh. “I had no idea something this bad could happen. Turns out it was for a good reason.”

I’ve read enough about servicemen coming home with PTSD to recognize the symptoms. Toby is a classic case. He’s been adjusting his actions to hide what he’s going through.

“You were basically sleep-walking,” I say. “And perfectly capable of going through the motions of anything you normally might do while technically being asleep. Do these nightmares come often?”

“Often enough.”

“What are they about?”

He starts to say something then stops. “I can’t tell you.” He lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry. To talk about it brings everything up again. I’m afraid of losing control if I go there. I know I owe you an explanation. Something to make you understand that I’m not a bad person. A reason why I’m capable of doing something as horrendous as throwing a lady down on the bed and choking her.”

His voice breaks and he stops talking. I quietly wait for him to go on at his own pace. He rubs his hands down his face and blows out a long, shuddering breath.

“The truth is, I think I’m a bad person,” he says. “I’ve done terrible things in the call of duty. Every day I live with deep regret for the things I’ve done.”

The anguish in his voice grabs my heart deep down inside and won’t let go. I need him to keep talking. To let me in.

“I’ve killed innocent people,” he continues. “And I’ve lost men who were close to me. The ones that didn’t die are half-gone now, too. Nothing but empty shells of the men they once were. Nobody can understand unless they were there. We spent months in the Middle East trying to stay alive. Going out every day on patrol hunting for explosive IEDs in potholes or routing out enemy insurgents. The work kept us pumped full of adrenaline, day after day. It was a rush. We were a family, a tight-knit group. Then one day we came home to stay. Alone without each other’s support. And now, everything is different. The world is not the same. Not for me and not for them.”

My heart is breaking for him. To know that he went to Afghanistan a young, country boy full of hope and energy only to return home with pieces missing from his soul.

My head is telling me that staying in the room with a clearly dangerous person is crazy and insane.

My gut is telling me to wrap my arms around him, hold him tight, and kiss his pain away.

If only I can.

I’m not sure.

Toby is broken and damaged, maybe beyond repair.

It might not be possible to soothe his pain away. Even for a night. And he might not want me to try. There is a huge protective wall around him to keep people and the pain at bay. If he lets a crack happen in the wall, the whole thing will come tumbling down.

“I came back a different man,” he explains. “I’m not the same person that I was when I left. And I never will be again. I don’t even know how to begin to get back to that place.”

In his husky Southern voice, I hear every fear he has and every regret.

All this and more.

Toby needs me.

He might not realize it right now or want to admit it. He’s a Marine. To show fear or weakness would be against their basic principles. If I wait for him to reach out a hand to me, I’ll be waiting forever. I have to take a chance and make the first bold move.

I slide across the bed until I’m right behind him. The mattress sinks down with my weight, yet he still doesn’t turn to look at me. Both of his hands are clenched at his sides as if he’s afraid to relax them for fear of what they might do.

“That’s okay,” I say. “Because the man right here and now is the only one I know.”