THIRTEEN

Billie

BORROWING XANDER'S BOXER brIEFS and Ethan's thermal, I successfully sneak out of the guest room and tiptoe across the landing to my bedroom. It's not even 6:00 a.m., but sleep eluded me most of the night.

After seeing Dom and Enzo in my bed last night, a gnawing anxiety has been chewing through the lining of my stomach, leaving me feeling tattered and hollow. Quietly opening the door, I wedge myself in and silently close the door behind me. A nostalgic grin tugs at my lips with the memories of a younger me slinking into my bedroom, hoping to not get caught.

On my bed lies two members of The Den.

One who I can talk with about quantum physics, meditation, astrology, and neuroplasticity. The other I can come to with a light dimming within, and he'll know exactly how I feel and how to validate those feelings, reminding me we've been there before—and come out of it. Standing over his sleeping form, I'm terrified. Terrified that the "I can come to" may one day turn into an "I could come to." That our relationship may no longer be one I think of in present tense, but in past tense.

When Enzo is merely sleeping, when he's not being held captive by nightmares or torturous memories, he's angelic.

He's lying on his side, clutching my pillow between his arms, with his head resting on my The Sword sweatshirt. His pouty lips are relaxed, olive skin almost shimmering over his high cheekbones, long lashes curling delicately at their ends, and his blue-black hair that is loose from his ponytail curtains part of his face.

"I don't want to lose you, Enzo," I whisper to myself. I want to reach out to him, to trace his shapely brows and the bridge of his nose with my fingertips. To feel the silky thickness of his hair as I weave my fingers through it. Fisting my hands, I know I can't. Not when he's sleeping. Not unless I'm cuddled up with him or he reaches for me first. Sitting on the folded quilt on top of the trunk at the foot of my bed, I pull my knees into my chest, hugging them tightly—the way I want to hug him. Resting my cheek on my knees, I intently stare at Enzo's face, touching him with my eyes.

"You won't lose him, Demon," Dom sleepily rasps in a scratchy voice from the other side of the bed, startling me. Lifting my head up, I gaze at Dom. His eyes are still closed, head resting on my decorative pillow, red hair an absolute mess. His skin has a sweaty sheen to it. Shit, even his freckles look pale. He's going to have a rough morning.

"How... how do you know Dom?" I stammer, clutching myself tighter, not liking the shakiness in my voice.

At the sound of my voice, long fingers thread through the iron spindles at the end of my bed and stretch out to take a light hold of my wrist. Looking down, Enzo's sweatshirt has pulled up, showing his tattooed forearm and heavily veined hand. His thumb begins to rub along my pulse point, filling up a little of that emptiness that's been eating away at my insides like The Nothingness in The Neverending Story . When I first met Enzo, I wanted to call him Atreyu, the young, standoffish, but hot, grassy-plains warrior in the film. Enzo's breath has remained steady. His eyes are still closed, and it's like his body recognizes me even in sleep.

"I just do," Dom replies with a yawn.

Now that I'm in Enzo's hold, I feel comfortable reaching my free hand out to brush the strands of hair back from his face. Both are just as soft as they look.

"Billie, you here?" Enzo wonders, his voice thin and wispy as if he's still dreaming.

Turning my hand so the back of my fingers can lightly sweep over his unmarred cheek. I grin. "Well, it is my room."

A soft smile curves his lips, and he presses a small kiss on my palm. "That it is," he whispers, warming my skin with his breath. His lashes are so long that when his eyelids flutter, you can see the shadow of his lashes dance below his eyes before they fully open—emerald-green eyes that seem to have been locked on mine even behind the shades of sleep.

We watch each other for a time, not saying anything. He lets my hand cup and stroke his face. I let his thumb brush my pulse. This is us. We spent hours like this as kids, gently holding one another, keeping our eyes on each other, thinking that if we stayed locked together, we were safe. If we held on, no one else could.

Enzo's chest rises with a quivering inhale. "I think it's time for that ride, Billie."

Tracing the back of my knuckles along the line of his high cheekbone to his hairline and then curling the strands behind his ear, I exhale tremulous breath. "Yeah, I think it is time for that ride Enzo."

And I hope. I hope that this isn't the last ride we have.