   She wakes with a jolt, the thin film of sweat clinging to her skin the only remainder of the nightmare that brought her tearing back to consciousness with such a start, clutching frantically at the rumpled sheets covering her chest as she heaves for breath. The image of Riley’s face remains imprinted on the back of her lids, his expression, soft — his fingers, caressing the slope of her cheekbone, thumb pressing into the swell of her lower lip. It sends a shiver down her spine, and she shifts, rolling away from Camden’s motionless form to keep from waking him as she draws herself out of bed, the covers falling away from her figure. She didn’t plan to spend the night here — granted, she never does, but she prefers his living conditions to her own, prefers sleeping with a body next to her, especially when that body is Camden’s. He’s the best remedy she’s found to ward off the night terrors that leech into her dreams, twisting them into something terrifying; though, admittedly, it doesn’t always work.
   Este kicks lazily through the small pile of her clothing on the floor — a crimson Valentino dress, the already daring leg slit ripped to the point of making it unwearable — and plucks her undergarments from the jumble of fabric, slipping the skimpy black thong over her thighs as she meanders about the bedroom. A few moments of rifling through Camden’s drawers and she procures a shirt, something thin and white that she drapes over her head without thinking twice about it, hoping more to keep from catching a chill than preserve her modesty. They don’t have much to hide from one another, not in the physical sense.Â
   Her footsteps light against the hardwood, she circles the mattress, setting herself delicately on the edge with a quiet sigh, Camden’s breath warm against her bare thigh. She considers not waking him at all, leaving him to the tranquility of sleep for the time being and slipping out the door without a sound, but she knows he’d be unhappy with her. Humming, she cocks her head and drapes a hand around the nape of his neck, allowing herself one last moment to admire his docility.Â
   “Buenos dĂas, mi prĂncipe,” she whispers, raking the blood-red tips of her nails through his dark hair. He almost looks peaceful, normal in sleep, like a man who doesn’t spar with demons jabbering in his ears from noon to night. Este fights a smile, her finger gently grazing his jaw as she speaks, hoping Camden has enough of his wits about him to register and process her words. “Call a car for me while I get dressed, will you? I have to meet a shipment with Andrei — Russian bitches. Loud putas. He’ll never let me hear the end of it if he has to interact with a single one of them.” / @insanityborn
