Chapter 5

CIARA

For a long time, I don't sleep.

It's hard to sleep when your worst nightmare has come true; it makes you wonder how bad it's going to get in your head if you drift into dreamland.

So instead, I just lie there, looking up at the ceiling, considering all the choices that have brought me to this moment.

I was young when I met Robert, young and innocent and desperate to be loved. He seemed so handsome, so much worldlier than I did, and he was so darn popular that I couldn't understand why he was interested in me.

I understand why now.

It wasn't that I was beautiful or sexy—though I know looking back that I probably was, in that fresh-faced way that all hopeful young people are—it was that I adored him. Hung on his every word. He treated his love like some extravagant gift, and I was honored that he'd chosen to bestow it upon me. I was the chosen one, envied by all my friends.

But such a gift had come with strings. With ties. It started small, him telling me that this color looked better on me, or that dress was more appropriate to wear to a social, and I wanted to please him. I wanted to make him happy because I loved him, and you did nice things for people you loved.

Somehow, it wasn't enough.

Soon I was talking quieter, walking lighter, because he'd declared that it was more ladylike. Talking less loudly. Changing my friends. Isolating myself.

By the time we got married, I had hardly anyone at the reception—it was all his friends, his family, his perfect wedding.

I was laced into a dress so tight I could barely breathe, and the only person who got me down that aisle was Grannie, who squeezed my hand and said that I looked very pale for a bride on her wedding day.

That night was the first night he hit me.

I'm shaking, and I wrap my arms around myself, as if holding on tightly will somehow hold me together.

Red yips next to me, and nuzzles at me with her nose until I put out a hand and stroke her coat. I guess she's treating me like a packmate. It should make me feel strange—I'm probably a fool for having a wolf in my bed—but somehow it doesn't.

How sad am I, how lonely, that I'll take comfort from a wolf?

Closing my eyes, I brave sleep.

She takes her sweet time, does sleep, a fickle mistress indeed, and when she beckons me under, the dream is as bad as I feared.

A giant chess set, with me as a pawn. I move forward, square my square, inching my way to the other side, to freedom, until Robert appears on my square, riding a horse like some twisted white knight. He grabs me by my hair and drags me upwards, up to ride behind him on the horse and I wake myself with my own screaming.

I'm sitting upright, panting, my skin clammy and my hands tight clenching the blankets. I'm used to being used to this. The first year after I left him I would wake up in the same way every night. It took two years of safety, of calm, of solitude before I started sleeping through the night again. Two years of peaceful repose. But ever since I caught that first glance of him in the supermarket, the nightmares have been back.

This isn't even the worst dream I've had.

I've dreamt of being locked in our old house, unable to escape.

I've dreamt of losing my voice so entirely that I can't even speak when he asks me a question.

I've dreamt of the night before I left.

Red is distressed. She whines, the sound plaintive, and it's clear that my night terrors have upset her. I can't tell whether it's because I scared her, or because she feels sorry for me.

But she doesn't snap or growl. Just whines, and nuzzles at my hand, bats my side with her head until I relent and stroke her fur again.

It's calming in a way that I didn't expect.