I press past this. “Have you ever told anyone?”

In answer he flops back onto his back, and I sigh, recognizing the signs of him shutting down.

But he surprises me. “No.” His voice is quiet. “I’ve never told anyone.”

“You’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

He turns his head toward me. “So I’ll feel better if I talk about my bullshit, but you get to keep your issues locked in the vault?”

I open my mouth to argue, but he has a point. “My issues are fresher,” I respond finally.

He snorts. “Well, take it from someone whose issues have been left on the shelf too long. The longer they rot, the more important it becomes that you keep the lid on.”

I feel a little burst of gratification. He’s not exactly opening up, but neither is he tensing up when I get close to touchy topics. And although I’m desperate to keep pressing, I figure it’s better to quit while I’m ahead. I need to draw him out slowly.

So instead of going all shrink-mode on him like I want to, I give him a little smile and start to move toward the edge of the bed. I need to get out of this room before we make a mistake.

His hand touches my knee and I freeze, because the touch is gentle and pleading.

I raise my eyebrows questioningly, but he looks away, pulling back before he can say whatever he’s trying to. I take a guess.

“You don’t want to go back to sleep?” I ask, knowing that asking a twenty-four-year-old guy if he’s afraid of bad dreams is likely to earn me the middle finger.

Paul doesn’t answer. Not with words. But when his eyes meet mine, I know. He doesn’t want to be alone. I let him have his manly pride, though, and don’t force him to say it out loud. Neither can I leave him. Not now. I move again, reaching toward the foot of the bed to grab for the sheets, which are all tangled at his feet.

“First things first.” I keep my voice matter-of-fact. “You should know that I’m a terrible cuddler.”

“There’s no such thing,” he says.

“No, there is. I thrash and stuff,” I say, tapping my fingers against his knee to get him to lift his leg so I can pull the blanket all the way up.

He tenses a little, and I belatedly realize what I just did. I touched his leg—his bad leg. I was so busy trying not to stare at his junk that I completely forgot.

My eyes fly to his face, but his expression is unreadable. Typical. But at least he’s not flipping out.

I snatch my hand back, but I let my eyes return to his leg. I don’t know what I was expecting. Bones sticking out every which way and covered with alien skin, or something.

But it just looks . . . different. Like the skin is a different texture on one side of his thigh. Skin graft, maybe?

“You should have seen the other guy,” he says softly.

I let out a little laugh, even though it’s not funny. He’s talking about it. And he’s letting me look.

As a reward for his baby steps, I change the subject again. “Listen, soldier, if you start wailing in your sleep again, this cuddle deal is off the table.”

“I don’t remember making a cuddle deal.”

“You did,” I say confidently. “With your eyes.”

“A girlish delusion, clearly,” he says. But he lifts his arm to make room for me anyway, and I hunker down before he can change his mind.

As far as crossing the line goes, cuddling’s almost as bad as making out with him, but there’s nothing in the world that could make me leave this bed.

I hesitate only a second before resting my head against his shoulder. I shouldn’t touch him. After what happened—almost happened—I really shouldn’t touch him. But I can’t seem to stop my hand from skimming over his shoulder and then along to his biceps. I start to trace my fingers down his forearm to his wrist when he jerks and tenses.

I glance up at him in surprise, but he’s still staring straight up at the ceiling. He lets out a long, intentional breath, and I realize he’s trying to force himself to relax. To not freak out about . . .

My eyes move to where my hand rests on his lower arm.

The marks aren’t obvious. Nothing like the scars on his face. But something happened to his wrists. Something inhuman and brutal.

I swallow. “Do you want to talk?” I ask.

His fingers graze over my upper arm. Not sexually. Just . . . nicely.

“God, no,” he says gently.

“So what, we just lie here?” I say, even though that sounds like heaven to me.

“That’s the plan. I’m counting on your shitty cuddling skills to keep the nightmares away.”

I snuggle closer. “Done. And in exchange, you can take back what you said about my hair and my pajamas.”

His fingers toy with the tips of my hair. “I’ll admit that bedhead has a certain sexy appeal. But I stand by what I said about your tank top. It’s ugly and inside out.”

“But hey, it is a tank top,” I say, “So at least you got to see the boobs.”

“See, but not touch,” he grumbles.

In my flirty, relaxed mood, it’s on the tip of my tongue to say “next time,” but I catch myself before the words get out. Still, for the next hour I’m definitely thinking about next time.

And if his agitated breath is any indication, so is he.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Paul

Olivia wasn’t kidding. She really is a terrible cuddler.

For the first twenty minutes or so after she curls up at my side, it’s nice. Really nice. Then, about five minutes after her breathing becomes regular and I’m just starting to drift off, her hand jerks, karate-chopping my jugular. I’m still recovering when she abruptly flops over onto her back, hitting my still-sore nose with the back of her hand.