Holland
The scream ripped me out of the dark before I knew it belonged to me.
I woke flailing—sheets strangling my legs, throat raw, fists punching at air that felt like fur and teeth and something that wore Robbie’s face until it didn’t. The lamp by my bed still threw that calm pool of amber on the wall, but my eyes were full of a parking lot moon and bones breaking, and my hands were trying to keep something awful from happening to me again.
“Hey—Holland.” Remy’s voice cut through the nightmare like a steady hand cutting a seatbelt. “It’s me.”
The door banged open, then swung softer as he corrected himself, and suddenly he was there at the edge of my bed—barefoot, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled from the couch. He didn’t rush me. He didn’t loom. He reached for my flying wrists like you w
