Page 125 of My Unhinged Alphas
The bed shifts beside me. Not a normal sleeping movement. Not someone rolling over or stretching out. This is tighter than that. Restless. Wrong.
I turn my head.
Vale is next to me, on top of the covers like he didn’t trust himself to get under them, still in his clothes except for his boots, one arm flung over his stomach, the other half-curled by his side. In the dark, he’s mostly shape and shadow. But I can hear him now. His breathing. Too rough. Too uneven. Like he’s running somewhere in his sleep and can’t get free of it.
He says something under his breath, too low to catch. Then his face tightens. His hand flexes against the blanket.
For one second I just watch him.
Then I sit up a little and whisper, “Vale.”
Nothing.
He shifts harder, jaw clenched, breath catching like he’s choking on something invisible.
“Vale,” I say again, louder this time.
Still nothing. I reach out before I can overthink it and put my hand on his shoulder.
He jerks hard under my touch, and his eyes snap open.
For half a second he looks terrifying. Not because he’s awake, but because he isn’t all the way back yet. His body goes rigid, eyes wild in the dark like he’s seeing something else over me, something old and bad and bloody.
“Vale,” I say quickly. “Hey. It’s me.”
He blinks once. Then again.
The room comes back to him in pieces. The motel. The dark. Me.
His chest rises and falls too fast.
I take my hand off him slowly. “You were dreaming.”
He looks away first. “I know.” His voice is rough with sleep and something heavier under it.
For a second neither of us says anything. The room is dark except for the weak wash of parking-lot light leaking around the curtains. It cuts his face into angles, catches in the scar, leaves the rest of him in shadow.
“You were making noise,” I say quietly.
A humorless little breath leaves him. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
He doesn’t answer.
I tuck my knees up under the blanket and look at him. He’s still on top of the covers, one hand over his ribs now like he’s holding himself together there.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
He lets out another short breath, almost a laugh, except there’s nothing amused in it. “No.”
“Okay.”
I settle back against the headboard. He stays where he is, staring at the ceiling like he can will himself into calm if he’s quiet enough.
A minute passes. Maybe two.
Then he says, “It was nothing.”
