Feyre jerked awake. She looked around the room, trying to determine what startled her enough to wake her. The darkness started back at Feyre in silence. No sign of anything that roused her from sleep.
She heard a soft whimper to her left. Rhys was trembling, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his hands gripping the sheets as though they would tether him to reality. Feyre knew what was happening –- something that happened more often then they both would like.
Rhys was having a nightmare.
Feyre wished she could take away his pain – the nightmares, the bad memories from Under the Mountain that continued to plague his sleep, leaving him in a fog throughout the day.
She slid her hands over the sheets and grabbed his hand tenderly. “Rhys,” she whispered. “Rhys, wake up.”
Rhys’s body lurched against the mattress, raven hair plastered to the sheen of sweat coating his forehead. She noticed the glimmer of tear-tracks staining his cheeks as another whimper escaped his lips. Feyre released her own cry at seeing her mate suffer at the hands of his memories.
She held his face between her hands, brushing her fingers over his wet cheeks. “Rhys, please,” she sobbed. Feyre knew how much his nightmares hurt him. Occasionally, he would tell her of the dreams that plagued his mind, holding him tightly in their grasp. But other times, Rhys would shield her from his past, never truly telling her the whole story.
Feyre cautiously crawled over his trembling body. She knew she had to do this carefully or else Rhys would jerk awake, his mind still caught in the halfway point between wake and sleep, thinking she was Amarantha on top of him.
Feyre’s hands gently pushed his hair aside, and whispered into his ear as well as his mind, “Wake up, Rhys. Please wake up. Come back to me, Rhys. Rhys. Rhys. Rhys.”
She felt his body jolt underneath her, heart pounding emphatically. Rhys’s eyes shot open, the shocking violet of them searching his surroundings, finally landing on his mate.
“Feyre,” he rasped. His hands slid up to her hipbones, gripping them firmly, as if they would keep him grounded. “Feyre.” Rhys’s eyes squeezed shut, causing more tears to slide down his pale cheeks. “She was there, Feyre,” he said, voice breaking on the syllables of her name. “She had you again. You were hanging from the ceiling, bleeding, your limbs twisted and broken. I tried to reach you -– I tried to fight her –- but I was frozen. I couldn’t move,” Rhys choked out. “I couldn’t save you.”
Feyre’s heart shattered in her chest. She reached out and grabbed his hand, bringing it up to her face, her chest, her shoulders, to any inch of skin that was open beneath her nightgown – trying to comfort him, to let him know that she was real and unharmed and with him. “I’m here, Rhys,” she said firmly. “I’m okay. Amaranth’s gone. You’re safe. I’m here,” she said, rubbing her thumb against the smooth, tattooed skin of his chest. Feyre continued to comfort Rhys with her words and her touches, letting him know she was there.
“I almost lost you,” he breathed, hands tightening on the fabric of her nightclothes.
“I’m here, Rhys. No one is taking me away from you ever again.” Feyre laid her head on his chest, placing a kiss on his collarbone. “I’m here,” she repeated.
A sigh escaped Rhys’s lips as his arms wrapped around her body curled around him. His breathing evened out, and he fell into a peaceful sleep with his mate in his arms. Where she would always be when he needed her most.
“I love you, Rhys,” she whispered.