Page 52 of The Scarab's Game

After I’d showered last night, Ihadbeen wired. Every drop of water had me thinking about the possibility Emmett wanted me. That he’d insisted I stay with him, he’d followed me to the gallery and restaurant, and he’d been waiting for me to arrive after dinner—not because I was Scarlett’s best friend, but because I was me.

So I’d put on some perfume, made a ridiculous display with my hips, and nothing! I put my foot on the table so the robe would expose my leg—and almost a lot more—but he didn’t react.

No, hedidreact. He kept checking his laptop.

I scrubbed my hands over my face.

Emmett couldn’t get back to work fast enough.

I was officially the worst femme fatale in the history of the world.

A soft noise from Emmett’s room broke my thoughts. I sat up again and cocked my head, listening. Was it my imagination or was he still awake? The clock by my bed proclaimed it was three in the morning. Did he have that much work to finish?

The sound came again, louder.

An icy burst crawled up my spine. Itwashim, right? Someone hadn’t broken in?

I slid out from the bed and crept toward my door. Pressed an ear to it. The sound came again, but it was definitely from the wall between our rooms, not the hallway.

Curiosity and adrenaline urged me forward.

Quietly, I eased my door open and stepped into the hallway, my feet barely whispering against the hardwood floor. His door was open—exactly like he’d promised.

The noise came again, obviously from his room—a low groan, guttural and filled with pain, followed by heavy breaths. My stomach clenched as I drew closer.

“No,” he murmured.

It was a nightmare. I paused before I reached his room, wanting to check on him, but not wanting to. This was crossing a line—stepping into his personal space uninvited. Not just uninvited, but while he was sleeping.

He rustled the sheets, followed by another soft cry. Before I could second or third-guess myself, my feet carried me the final distance to his room. His curtains were wide open, with the moonlight dancing across his sweat-slicked skin. The covers were a mess, half off the bed, and three pillows were on the floor.His face twisted in discomfort as he fought some unseen enemy in his dreams.

“Emmett,” I called softly, stepping further into the room. His head jerked to the side, a grimace overwhelming his features. It was getting worse.

He tossed the sheets again, revealing how little he wore—boxer briefs only.

You shouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t want you to see him like this.

Then he shouldn’t have convinced me to stay with him.

“Em, wake up.”

His body jerked, and another groan tumbled from his lips.

I reached out, pausing before I touched his shoulder. Waking someone from a nightmare was dangerous. Why was I doing this?

Or was that an old wives’ tale?

“Emmett,” I said more firmly this time, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. His skin was hot to the touch, feverish even.

His eyes flew open with a start, wild and unfocused. He shot upright, his hand darting beneath his pillow.

Re-emerging with a handgun.

Pointed directly at my chest.

“Get out!” he bellowed.

I stumbled backward, fear twisting my insides. Heart leaping into my throat. Hands raised. “It’s me!”