11
Denali
I jerk awake at Nash’s cry. He thrashes beside me like he’s being electrocuted. In the few weeks since he moved in, I’ve noticed he twitches with flashbacks or bad dreams at night, but this time is severe. The last time I saw his body jump and convulse like when we were in our cell, as the guards took me away.
“Nash,” I breathe, then speak louder. “Nash. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
A scent hits me—cleaning fluid they used to scour the cinder-block walls, washing away the blood. Shifter blood.
“No,” I whisper, chills running up and down my arms. This isn’t a nightmare. Nash is back in that place, trapped in the memory.
Am I really smelling that place? How? It’s like Nash’s flashback seeps into me, too. Must be some kind of mate ability.
I shake Nash’s bulging biceps, but I spe
