Jordan sat up in the bed. “Ty,” she called out again, reaching for his arm. He bolted upright next to her. “What? What, baby? What is it?” She looked at him and felt herself flush with heat. “I . . . I don’t know.” A disturbing combination of guilt and arousal settled over her. “I think I had a dream.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed her head. “It’s okay, I’m here.” He pulled her close. “Are you okay? Can I get you something? A drink? A cold cloth?” “It wasn’t a bad dream. At least I don’t think it was,” she murmured. Ty rubbed his eyes and blinked at her. “Was it a vision? Something connected to a case?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Since the Titus bust, she’d been sleeping peacefully most nights. Only once had she dreamed about her family’s murders. Ty had been there to hold her, to ease the bone-deep trembling and sickness that often accompanied those memories.
