Arms going around me, holding me still. Restraining me. No! Wouldn’t let him touch me again. Wouldn’t let him—

“Nadia!”

I slammed awake, head flying back, gulping air. For a moment, I seemed to hang there, between sleep and waking, not sure where I belonged. Then I felt the arms around me, bare skin hot against mine. I blinked. A face appeared, black eyes, tousled black hair, black beard shadow framing a frown…Jack.

I jumped, arms flailing, one catching him in the jaw hard enough that the smack resounded through the tiny room.

“Oh, geez,” I said, scrambling up. “I’m sor—”

“Deserved it,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “Shouldn’t have startled you.”

He sat on the edge of my bed, still dressed only in his jeans.

“You were having a nightmare,” he said.

Wisps of the dream fluttered back to me. “I was. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—Did I wake you?”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m worried about. Losing a few hours of sleep.” He met my gaze. “Seemed like a bad one. You were…screaming.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Sorry.”

“Stop that. Fuck.” He shook his head and went silent, as if considering something, then, slowly, turned to meet my gaze. “You were calling for your cousin.”

“My—?” The word jammed in my throat. “You know.”

“Yeah. Evelyn.”

Of course. I’d already suspected she’d found the case. It wasn’t difficult—almost any article on the Franco incident mentioned my past.

I rubbed my throat. His gaze went there, and stayed there. I yanked my hand away.

“That’s where you got it,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

His fingertips brushed the faint scar on my throat.

“N—no,” I said, backing up and instinctively ducking my head, covering the mark. “That’s just—Kids’ stuff. You know. Goofing around, doing what our parents always tell us not to do. I learned my lesson. Anyway, I’m sorry I woke you and—”

“Papers don’t say anything about you.”

“Papers?”

“Your cousin’s murder. The articles. Said you escaped unharmed.”

“Amy—” I swallowed. “She was prettier, more mature. So he picked her first and…”

“Left you alone?”

I met his gaze. “Yes.”

In the silence that followed, I sat there, mouth slightly open as I struggled for slow, easy breaths. He stared out across the room, and rubbed his lower lip. Twice his gaze swung my way and I froze, certain he was going to ask another question.

The third time, his gaze came to rest on my throat and I struggled to keep my chin up, letting him look.

“What’d you do?”

“Wha—?” The word came out as a squeak. I coughed. “What?”

“The scar. Looks like a knife wound.”

I managed a laugh, a little too high-pitched, but he didn’t seem to notice, his expression unchanged.