I ran through the dark halls of Winters House, fleeing the nightmare that stalked me. The walls extended before me, wreathed in shadows, stretching longer and longer as I ran. In the distance, firelight glowed in the library.

If I could get to the library, I would be safe.

I don't know why I was so certain of that, but I knew it to my soul. Feet pounded behind me, hands reaching. I ran faster, my legs wobbling with fatigue, lungs burning. The longer I ran, the further the hall stretched, the firelight drifting away.

In the distance, I saw Gage. I cried out, calling his name. My voice was sucked into the vacuum of air around me, silent a moment after it left my mouth.

Fingers grazed the back of my shoulder, hooking in the collar of my robe. I screamed again, twisting free and running faster. Harder. For a second, it seemed like I was making progress. I passed a window in the hall, then another, moonlight spilling over the fountain in the courtyard.

How many windows were between my room and the library? Two? Three? In this fun house mirror of a hallway, it looked like a hundred.

The hand closed over my wrist, wrenching me back, spinning me on my heel and throwing me off balance. I landed hard, my head bouncing off the wood floor, screaming in terror as Anthony loomed above me.

I knew that carefully blank expression. The icy look in his eyes. I'd seen it before, far too many times. I rolled to the side and scrambled to my knees, ready to launch my body forward like a sprinter at the starting line.

Muscles coiled, I propelled myself away, that flicker of firelight and Gage’s shadow my goal, my finish line. If I could just get to the end of the hall I'd be safe.

With a burst of exhilarated relief, I flew forward, only to feel the belt of my robe cut hard into my stomach as a hand yanked me back. I fell face first and rolled to face Anthony. As he had been so many nights before, he was silent, his fury channeled through his fists. And, as I never had before, instead of laying there, mute and terrified, I screamed. I screamed out my rage and my pain and my fear.

Arms flailing, legs kicking, I fought with everything I had. I was done being his victim. He was dead, I was free, and I wasn't going back. Anthony would have to kill me first.

His blows never landed. I felt my hands striking flesh, fingers closing around my wrists, but there was no pain. He wasn't hitting me. Why wasn't he hitting me?

A voice echoed in my ear, rough and insistent. Calming. “Sophie. Sophie, Angel, wake up. It's okay.”

“No! Let me go. Let me go.”

Heavy weight settled over my legs, pinning me down. Strong fingers held my wrists together, pressing them down into my chest. An arm wrapped around my back, rolling me into a long, hard body. Lips grazed my ear, and a familiar voice said, “Sophie, I've got you. I've got you. You’re safe. Wake up. You can wake up now.”

Finally, I did. I opened my eyes to find myself wrapped in a cocoon of Gage, his leg over mine, his arm around me, holding me close.

I looked up at him, words crowding my mind. “What are you doing here?” I asked, settling for the least confusing and humiliating question.

Releasing my wrists, Gage lifted a hand to smooth damp strands of hair back off my face. “I couldn't sleep. I was checking the house, and I heard you scream.” He stroked gentle fingers over my cheek. “Are your nightmares usually that bad?”

I looked away. Of all the people I'd known in my life, Gage was the only one who would understand. He had his own demons, memories that haunted him and stole his sleep. He knew what it was like to wake in the middle of the night, heart pounding, filled with terror.

But Gage had been a soldier. He'd earned his demons because he was brave and because he put himself at risk to protect the innocent, to do what he thought was right. All I’d done was marry the wrong man and then find myself unable to leave him. Not exactly heroic stuff.

The callused pad of his thumb smoothed over my cheekbone, wiping away a tear. Gage said, “You don't have to talk about it, but I want to know if you want to tell me.”

Unable to meet his eyes, I pressed my forehead to his chest. When I finally worked up the nerve to speak, it was in halting whispers.

“He used to hit me. I never knew when. Or why. He would just be there, so angry, and start hitting me until he was done. He said he had a darkness inside him and the only way to hold it back was to give it to me.”

I heard what I'd said, and a sob choked my throat. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. How could I have married him? How had I not seen what he was?

Knowing Gage was probably wondering why I’d stayed with Anthony, I tried to explain, “I wanted to get away. I tried. He wasn't like that when I married him. He was sweet and attentive. Charming. Then we were married, and he wanted me to quit my job at the hospital. It was important to him, so I did. Then he wanted us to move. He bought a house without asking me, far out in the country on so much land. There was nowhere to walk to. I didn't have a car. And he had security. A guard. He said it was for my protection.”

“Why did you need protection living out in the country?”

“Anthony said it was his job. That he needed the peace and quiet to relax, but he wanted to be sure I had protection when he was away.”

“What kind of job did he have that he thought his wife needed protection?” Gage asked.

“He was an accountant,” I said quietly. Gage was silent. I knew it didn’t add up. The luxury cars, the huge house in the country, the 24/7 security. “I didn’t see how weird it all was until we were married. Before that, he was very careful to only show me what he wanted me to see. And when I tried to leave, the guards always brought me back.”

“Did they hurt you?” Gage asked in a careful, measured tone. His muscles had gone tight, his heart beating faster in his chest, thudding beneath my cheek. He didn't like what I was telling him. Neither did I.

“No. Never. They didn’t even speak to me. I think Anthony forbade it. They just brought me back and told Anthony. After the second time, I stopped trying. Anthony was so angry. I realized he wouldn't take me to the hospital and—”

I couldn't say it. I couldn't tell Gage that I’d been afraid my husband would kill me in a fit of rage and I'd end up buried in the woods behind our house, my body forgotten and abandoned in the cold dirt.

“How did he die?” Gage asked.

“A car accident.” Car accidents weren't usually considered good luck, but in my case, it had been a gift. Freedom. A second chance.

“Did he—” Gage cleared his throat. “Did he—”

Gage couldn't get the word out, but I knew what he was asking. Slowly, I said, “No. No, Gage. He barely touched me. I think he had other women for that. He didn't want children. At first, I thought maybe there was something wrong with me, and later I was just glad. Looking back, I think he just didn't see me that way. I was there to take care of him. To cook for him, to belong to him. To hold back his darkness. But he didn't want me for sex.”

“How often do you have nightmares like this?” Gage asked, his voice gruff.

“This bad? Once a week, maybe twice. Less often than I used to.”

“Did you ever see anyone after your marriage? A therapist or counselor?”

“No,” I whispered. “I should, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re talking to me,” he said quietly.

A tear slid down my cheek, and I whispered, so quietly it was little more than a breath, “I’m ashamed.”

“No, Angel, you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. No one is going to judge you. It’s been two years, and you still can’t sleep. You can’t go on like this. You need to talk to someone.”

He combed his fingers through my hair, smoothing it away from my face and down my back. He did it again, his fingers rubbing my scalp, petting me. I wanted to purr. The fear from the nightmare was gone. I don't think I’d ever felt that protected, with Gage curled around me, stroking me, soothing me.

Maybe that was why I felt brave enough to flatten my palm against his chest, meet his eyes, and say, “I will if you will.”

He stared at me in surprise. Feeling daring, I went on, “You have nightmares too, don't you? Isn't that why you can't sleep?”

Gage nodded, his eyes locked on mine.

“Are yours always the same thing?” I asked. “Mine are. Always some version of Anthony chasing me until he catches me. I run, and I run, but I never get away.”

Gage's eyes searched my face, looking for something. He must've found it because he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “Not always exactly the same. Sometimes it's the explosion when they took me. I can't get my team clear and they all die. Sometimes it's things that happened while they had me. Things they did. Sometimes it's finding my aunt and uncle.”

“Have you always had those? The dreams about your aunt and uncle?”

“For a year or two after they died, I'd dream about them. Those dreams stopped for years. I don't remember dreaming much at all until the last six months. Sometimes I think—” He stopped.

“What? Sometimes you think what?” I prodded, afraid of what he was going to say.

“It's not what you think it's going to be,” he said slowly, lost in memory. “They grabbed me after an explosion, an IED, that was supposed to kill most of my team. They weren’t after me specifically, they just wanted leverage. Any one of us would've done. My head was all wrapped up in making sure my team got clear, making sense of what was happening in the dust and the noise.

“Then they grabbed me, took me to their base and came at me with threats and ultimatums. And you think that's what it's going to be. The shouting and the pain. But then they throw you in a cell and leave you there. Alone. You think it's going to be all about the torture, but the boredom is almost as bad.

“Sometimes I think that's what knocked something loose in my head. All those long stretches of nothing and then boom. I'd be tied to a chair, and there'd be a camera, and they'd be trying to get me to confess to… Whatever they wanted that day. And everything inside me would focus on just not dying, just not talking, and then I'd wake up back in the cell, and I'd wait.”

A sob of sheer relief broke free in my chest. He knew. Gage knew something I never thought I'd be able to put into words. It wasn't just the pain; it wasn't just the randomness of the attacks. It was the long stretches of isolated boredom in between.

It was the waiting that made you crazy.

I'd had a beautiful house, but in the end, it hadn't been much better than Gage's cell. I'd been alone. No one to talk to. No Internet. No telephone. No friends. Endless days alone interspersed with sudden, terrifying violence. I never in my life thought I'd find another person who understood what that was like, the way it warped your sense of reality.

“Angel, don't cry. Please, don't cry.”

His thumb rubbed the tears from my cheek, and I said through hitching breaths, “I'm okay. I'm okay. It's just… You know. You know what it was like. The way it gets in your head and –”

His arm tightened around me, and his lips dropped to my forehead, rubbing my skin as he said, “I know, Angel. I know.”

I don't know how long we lay there, Gage holding me against him, our legs tangled, my tears soaking his T-shirt as he stroked my cheek and ran his fingers through my hair.

He only spoke once. “I'll go if you go. I'll talk to Cooper. He's got someone on staff. Those guys see some shit in their jobs, and he has a lot of ex-military. He'll have some names for me. He'll probably be able to suggest someone for you. I don't want you to live like this anymore, with these nightmares, remembering what he did to you.” Before I could speak, Gage went on, “I don't want to live like this anymore either. I want my life back.”

“Okay,” I said, winding my arm around his back and stroking my fingers down his spine.

He'd go if I’d go. I'd spent so long living in fear, but I'd been willing to accept a lesser version of it as normal. As safety. But it wasn't normal. As long as Anthony could stalk me in my sleep, I’d never truly feel safe.

I relaxed against Gage, letting him surround me, sinking into the feel of his fingers in my hair, his hard chest beneath my cheek, the muscles of his back under my hand. I don't know when it changed. When those strokes on my skin shifted from soothing to sensual.

I don't remember deciding to reach up and pull his face to mine. I just remember his mouth, gentle at first, then opening, his tongue stroking mine, his body shifting to press me back into the mattress, rising above me.