I wake up to a strange noise. It startles me out of deep sleep, and my eyes fly open, my heart pounding from an adrenaline surge.

What was that? For a moment, I don’t dare breathe, but then I realize that the sounds are coming from the other side of the bed—from the man sleeping beside me.

I sit up in bed and peer at him. It looks like he rolled away from me in the night, gathering all the blankets to himself. I’m completely naked and uncovered, and I actually feel a little chilly with the air-conditioning running at full blast.

The sounds escaping his throat are muffled, but there is a raw quality to them that gives me goosebumps. They remind me of an animal in pain. He’s breathing hard, almost gasping for air.

“Julian?” I say uncertainly. I don’t really know what to do in this situation. Should I wake him up? He’s clearly having a bad dream. I recall him telling me about his family, that they were all murdered, and I can’t help feeling pity for this beautiful, twisted man.

He cries out, his voice low and hoarse, and flops over onto his back, one arm hitting the pillow only a few inches away from me.

“Um, Julian?” I reach out cautiously and touch his hand.

He mumbles and turns his head, still deeply asleep. If we were anywhere but on this island, this would be the perfect moment for me to try to escape. As it stands, however, there’s really no point in going anywhere, so I just watch Julian warily, wondering if he’s going to wake up on his own or if I should try harder to wake him.

For a few moments, it seems like he’s settling down, his breathing calming a bit. Then he suddenly cries out again.

It’s a name this time.

“Maria,” he rasps out. “Maria…”

For one shocking second, I feel a hot tide of jealousy sweeping over me. Maria… He’s dreaming of another woman.

Then my rational side reasserts itself. Maria could easily be his mother or his sister—and even if she’s not, why should I care that he’s dreaming of her? It’s not like he’s my boyfriend or anything.

So I swallow and reach for him again, suppressing the residual pangs of jealousy. “Julian?”

As soon as my fingers touch his arm, he grabs me, his motions so fast and startling that only a small gasp escapes me as he pulls me toward him. His arms around me are inescapable, his embrace almost suffocating, and I can feel him shaking as he holds me tightly against him, my face pressed into his shoulder. His skin is cold and clammy with sweat, and I can hear his heart galloping in his chest.

“Maria,” he mumbles into my hair, his fingers digging into my back with such force that I’m sure there will be bruises there tomorrow. Yet somehow I don’t mind because I know he’s not doing this on purpose. He’s in the grip of his nightmare and he’s seeking comfort—and I’m the only one who can provide it right now.