He fought with the covers as though they were attacking him until he had pushed them from the bed. The sounds that were coming from his throat as he battled shamed him and he had to clamp his jaw tight to stop them from pouring out of him. Soaking wet with sweat—his hair plastered to his forehead—he scrambled from the bed to stand in the middle of his bedchamber, shivering violently. Stabbing a shaking hand through the wet curls to push them out of his eyes, he had to struggle to get himself under control. “Fuck!” he hissed, his chest deflating and expanding so quickly he felt lightheaded so he stumbled back to the bed to plop down. The dream that had shoved him brutally into consciousness was clinging to him like a cold, wet towel draped over his shoulders. The chill of it bore down to the marrow of his bones. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, taste the bitter bile oozing into his mouth. With a rugged gulp, he shot off the bed and barely made it into the bathing chamber before he puked.
