“Get the f**k out,” I say, pushing myself into a sitting position and rolling out of bed on the other side before she can touch me. “Get the f**k out!”

“You were screaming,” she says calmly as she climbs off the bed and turns to face me, the king-size bed separating her from my sweaty, amped-up self.

“Of course I’m yelling. It’s goddamned war.”

It takes me a second to register my words, and I run my hands over my face, trying to wake up. Trying to see anything but Alex dying.

“Get out,” I say again.

“How often does this happen?”

I ignore her and move toward the sideboard, where I pour myself a glass of whatever’s in the closest bottle.

“Water would be better,” she says. “You’re soaked with sweat; the alcohol will just make it worse.”

“Yeah? Water would be better? Water will fix it all?” I ask snidely. “You don’t know a f**king thing, Goldilocks.”

“Nice,” she snaps. “Really original. And I don’t mind the occasional bit of profanity, but you’re starting to get repetitive.”

I toss back the whisky, relishing the burn. I pour another, wondering how many it will take this time. How many drinks to numb the pain.

Cool, slim fingers wrap around my wrist. “Don’t.”

I jerk my hand away and push her back. Not hard, but enough that she stumbles a little.

A tiny, decent part of me starts to reach out to steady her. To apologize. No, to beg for forgiveness, because Paul Langdon is not the type who takes out his issues on women.

But she’s too close, and her presence is so wrong, and instead of apologizing, I turn my back to her and place my hands on my head, trying to take deep breaths when really all I want is to slide into nothingness and never come back.

“Paul.”

“Don’t,” I snarl. “Just because I played nice and let you ramble on about your childhood pet over pot roast doesn’t mean you get to come in here in your minuscule pajamas, trying to wipe my damp brow and comfort me on shit you know nothing about.”

“So then tell me about it,” she says, her voice all calm reason, pissing me off even further. “Or tell someone.”

Right. Never heard that advice before.

It’s not the advice that pisses me off; it’s the fact that for the first time ever, I’m tempted. For the first time, I want to lay my head on someone’s shoulder and let them stroke my hair and tell me that it will all be okay. I want to share the monsters inside me.

And that’s not the worst of it. Creeping in around the pain of seeing Alex die again, infiltrating the misery of that day, is another kind of awareness: that I’m wearing nothing but boxers, and that Olivia is in little more than underwear.

For anyone to be around me after one of the dreams is dangerous. But to have her, with her smooth skin and the lingering scent of the perfume she wears, invading my space when my blood is already pumping and I’m mad and turned on and ready to punish someone—anyone, starting with myself—well . . .

I turn around again to resume pouring my second drink, but she’s moved toward me again, plucking the glass from my hand. Her br**sts are against my biceps, and my edginess ratchets up another several notches.

“Leave,” I say. My voice is raspy. For God’s sake, leave now. I turn my head just slightly to watch her reaction.

She continues to watch me, her expression unreadable. “Or what? You physically throw me out?”

“It’s a distinct possibility.” The safer one.

“I’ll leave when you promise to talk to someone about the dreams. What if you start easy? Write it down on a piece of paper.”

Yeah, that’ll help. A f**king diary.

“I’m going to count to three,” I say, grabbing the glass back out of her hand and reaching for the bottle. “One.”

“Paul.”

“Two,” I say, never raising my voice. I toss back the shot, pouring another even as the one I just had still burns my throat.

She tries to grab for the bottle, but this time I’m prepared and move it out of reach. Except now we’re standing chest to chest.

Her eyes flare briefly. Annoyance? Arousal?

“Three,” I say slowly.

For a second, neither of us moves. Then I grab for her with the ruthless quickness of a soldier and fist my hand into her silky blond hair before she can step back.

Her eyes go wide, and for the first time since I’ve met her, she looks scared.

Good.

She should be.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Olivia

Just like the first time, the kiss is meant to punish.

But if the kiss the other day was about testing each other, this one is about domination.

Paul is winning. My mind is fully aware that I’ve invaded his space and his privacy, and this tortured man thinks that his mouth on mine is teaching me some sort of lesson.

And it’s a lesson all right. A lesson in want. Because if my mind registers that the kiss is savage, then my body is a glutton for it. The feel of Paul’s lips rubbing roughly against mine sets off a chain of fireworks through me.

His fingers tighten in my hair as the other hand snakes around my waist, jerking me toward him until we’re chest to chest. The thin fabric of my T-shirt does nothing to diminish the sensation of being against his bare chest—which, by the way, is even more ripped than I expected. I know it’s dark, but I’m pretty sure we’re talking eight-pack.