It feels wrong to be in here for real, too many foul memories of the time I’ve spent in this room in her nightmares, but I can’t let myself think that right now. All that matters is making sure Ada is okay.
I nudge the book on herpillow off of it, frowning when I see the spot of her drool dampening the pillowcase and flipping it over to the other side before lowering her to the bed as gingerly as possible. Belatedly, I realize I should’ve pulled down the covers before putting her into bed, and scan the room for something to cover her with. “Don’t suppose you know where the linen closet is, do you?” I murmur to Henry, who tilts his head at me, then trots off toward the living room.
Bemused, I follow him a few steps, his tail wagging as he goes to a bin in the living room and digs around, retrieving a mangled chew toy. He comes over and drops it at my feet, sitting and looking up at me expectantly as his tail swishes against the floor.
“I wish I could play, but I need to help Ada.” My eyes land on the thick, velvety throw blanket draped over the back of the couch. I smile down at Henry and give his head a pat. “Good boy. I promise once I’ve made sure she’s alright, I’ll find where she keeps your treats.”
Henry swishes his tail again, then picks up the toy and lumbers over to the large dog bed in the corner, clearly not as concerned about the state of things as I am. Blanket in hand, I head back to the bedroom, chest tightening at the sight of Ada splayed out on the bed.
Soft. Abundant. So godsdamn beautiful it hurts to look at her.
Not that I should be looking at all.
I unfurl the blanket and drape it over her before I’m tempted to stare more.
Her breathing is even, but I don’t know what signs to look for to assess if her injury is serious or not. Is it okay that she’s passed out, or should I attempt to wake her up? Do I put anything on the spot she hit?
A vague memory of her putting a frozen bag of peas on a sprained wrist in a dream many, many years ago bubbles up. I head to the kitchen and yank open the freezer, surveying the contents.
Dammit, no frozen peas to be found. There’s a carton of ice cream, some chicken breasts, something wrapped in foil and crusted with small shards of ice, and frozen broccoli. Is broccoli an acceptable substitute? Or is it the fact that it’s peas that makes the bag healing?
I run a hand through my hair, tugging at it as I silently berate myself for not knowing more about how to help Ada. Hating that all I know how to do well is hurt her.
I pull out the broccoli with a sigh. The chill is uncomfortable against my fingers, so I wrap it up in the remaining kitchen towel, making a mental note that I’m going to have to order her new ones.
When I return to Ada, she’s still, save for the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. It feels ridiculous to place the broccoli compress on her head, but she lets me hold it there without protest. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or not.
It’s awkward to stand there holding the bag. I worry that if she stirs, the first thing she’ll see is me looming over her in the dark. I could sit on the edge of the bed next to her, but that feels like a step too far. Too similar to the disgusting dream of Tom’s for comfort. So I settle for grabbing one of her throw pillows and using it to prop the cold bundle against so it doesn’t immediately slip off Ada’s temple when I let go.
I don’t know how long I stand there staring at her slack features, soaking in every faint freckle on the bridge of her nose, the fullness of her slightly parted lips, the glossy waves of her dark hair, and wishing I could match even a fraction of her beauty. Be the prince of her dreams. Or at least not be a monster that makes her recoil in terror.
When I’m satisfied she’s not about to spontaneously perish, I ease away from the bed and head back to the kitchen. Henry is fast asleep, all thoughts of playing and treats forgotten in his slumber. The oven is still heated to the right temperature, and the dough I’dpainstakingly rolled out and cut into human shapes sits on the counter, ready to be baked.
I can’t leave yet, for fear of Ada taking a turn for the worst, and it seems a waste to throw them out. With nothing else to do to pass the time, I get back to work on my original plan.
The flavor of the end result is strange and spicy, but not unpleasant, especially with the icing atop it. It turns out I’m far better at baking than decorating, but I’ll blame that on trying to do it one-handed. I keep going back into Ada’s room to check on her, setting aside the thawing broccoli after a while and rearranging the blanket that she’s rolled out from under it.
Once I’ve done the best I can with the cookies and cleaned up, there’s still a few hours before sunrise. Ada’s stack of firewood has run low, so I head out back and replenish it for her, taking a moment in the chilly pre-dawn air to center myself and examine the wound on my hand. It’s stopped bleeding, but it’s still painful. For some bizarre reason, I smile as I look down at the cut, remembering the fierce look on Ada’s face as she lunged at me.
Gods, she’s been through so much, yet she doesn’t give up. Even faced with the monster from her dreams, she fought.
My chest expands with more than the cold air I suck in as I re-wrap the towel around my palm, the tingling remaining even as I head inside.
The cookies arranged on the plate look a little pathetic, so I dig around in her pantry for something else to put with them. When I spy the packet of hot chocolate mix, I smile, knowing it’s featured in many of her holiday dreams. It doesn’t take long to prepare it, and I carry the steaming mug along with an assortment of my best cookies into the bedroom, leaving them on the bedside table.
Somehow, I can sense Ada will wake soon. It’s different than being forced back to my realm after being in her dream,and yet, there’s still that ache that I feel when I know I’m leaving her.
With one last look at the woman in bed, who shifts and stretches with a soft groan, I allow myself one brief stroke of her hair and a whispered, “I hope you like the cookies, Princess,” before I force myself to return to my home. It’s harder than ever, my body resisting the shift of planes, clinging to this form of flesh. Clinging to Ada’s presence. With a rough exhale and a stabbing, sorrowful pain in my gut, I force my way home.
I stayed too long. I shouldn’t go back again.
If I’d known that was the last time I’d ever be able to risk being by her side, I would’ve done more. But it’s too late. I can only pray that my gesture was enough to make her understand that I’m trying to help her. That I don’t need to be her nightmare anymore.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
“Ouch.”
