Chapter 292

In the dead of night, Freya was jerked awake by a nightmare. In her dream, she was kidnapped and boarded the ship again. The salty sea breeze and the kidnapper who pinned her down were all too vivid.

When Freya opened her eyes, she was in a cold sweat. It was unsettling, feeling as if the ordeal had happened to her all over again. Realizing it was all a dream, Freya rubbed her temples, fatigued. Suddenly, the lights in her room flickered on.

Freya shot up in bed, exclaiming, “Who’s there?”

Preston was standing in the doorway.

Upon recognizing him, Freya sighed with relief and said, “What are you doing standing at my door in the middle of the night? You scared the life out of me.”

“Scared? What were you screaming about then?”

“Screaming? What did I scream?”

“I could hear you from the next room, begging someone to… save you.”

Hearing this, Freya felt a chill run down her spine. Had she been talking in her sleep about her nightmare? The thought made Freya feel somewhat exposed, and she cautiously asked, “Did I say anything else?”

“Just that, nothing more.”

That was a relief. Freya sighed with relief, glad she hadn’t revealed more in her sleep.

“Should I have heard something else?” Preston teased.

“No! It was just a bad dream. I dreamt of something evil chasing me, so I kept shouting for help. Sorry for disturbing your rest, Mr. Tyler.”

“Can you go back to sleep?”

“No.” Ever since she had this second chance at life, Freya had been haunted by nightmares, fearing she’d wake up back on that dreadful ship. This time, her anxiety had sparked another nightmare, likely because she was staying at Preston’s place. After these dreams, Freya found it harder and harder to fall back asleep.

Preston suggested, “If you can’t sleep, get up. I know something that might help.”

“Oh?” Freya was curious but cautious.

She followed Preston to his study, bracing herself for what he might suggest.

“You’re not going to make me practice handwriting, are you? I can refuse, right?” She half-joked, hoping for an alternative to the hours of writing practice she’d endured.

Preston replied nonchalantly, “A drink might help. It makes sleep come easier.”

He poured a glass of whiskey and handed it to Freya.

Freya wasn’t big on drinking. Her only brushes with alcohol were the occasional, moderate cocktails at the Eclipse Lounge. But given her trouble sleeping lately, she figured she might as well give it a shot.

With a resigned gesture, Freya downed the whiskey Preston offered her.

The taste was bitter and spicy and not to her liking at all. It was a far cry from the mixed drinks she was used to at the Eclipse Lounge. Preston watched her reaction, slightly surprised.