“Yeah, and that’s what’s weird,” he says. “I had a wacky dream about an omega in the arena."
I almost lose another pancake.
"I did, too," I hear myself saying.
His normally warm eyes lock onto mine, all traces of playfulness gone. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. The earlier banter evaporates in an instant.
"What did you see?" he asks, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "In your dream?"
"She was..." I trail off, trying to capture the ethereal quality that had haunted my sleep. "Like a ghost. Moving through the shadows of the maintenance tunnels and back rooms. She smelled like…”
“Like honey and flowers?”
My head snaps up. "Honeysuckle."
He gives me a blank stare. "Uh… she didn't suck my?—"
"No," I bite, cutting him off. "That isn't what I meant. Honeysuckle is a flowering vine, Whiskey."
More staring. Then his eyes light up. "Ohhh. Right. Those pretty flowers that grow on bushes. I used to eat 'em growing up. The berries fucked up my stomach, though..."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Let's get back to the subject," I say, sighing. "What else do you remember?"
"Red hair," he says without hesitation. "A rich red, like fox fur."
"Auburn," I murmur, a strange yearning coming over me.
"Auburn," Whiskey repeats, rolling the word around in his mouth like he's tasting it. "You been reading the dictionary again?"
I roll my eyes, turning back to the stove to flip the last pancake. It's burnt beyond salvation. Not that it matters. At this point, I'm just using up all the batter because I need to have something to do with my hands. I scrape it into the trash and start cleaning up, my mind racing.
Whiskey can't read my mind, can he?
No. That’s impossible.
Terrifying,but impossible.
I turn to grab a dish towel only to find myself face-to-face with a wall of padded muscle. Whiskey's somehow managed to position himself directly behind me, effectively trapping me between his body and the counter.
"Move," I growl.
He doesn't budge, still smirking. "Magic word?"
I curl my lip at him. "Now."
For a moment, I think he's going to refuse and I'm going to snap. Everything happening right now has me too tightly wound to put up with his bullshit. But moments before my control starts to slip, he steps back, palms raised in mock surrender.
"Alright, alright. Sorry, bro."
I shove past him, but it's like shoving against a solid brick wall. The padding on his midsection just makes him sturdier. “As much as I’m enjoying psychoanalyzing our dreams, we should get going," I say, my voice clipped. "Thane's probably wondering where we are."
Whiskey nods, suddenly all business. It's a jarring shift, but one I'm grateful for. "Yeah, good call. Hey, if we're early, maybe we can check the tunnels. Find Wraith while we're at it."
"I'd rather not end up folded into a damn pretzel by a territorial feral alpha, thanks," I mutter, lifting my charcoal wool coat off the rack and checking the inner pocket to make sure I have a few extra surgical masks tucked away.
But even if Wraith didn't haunt the dank maintenance halls and back rooms like the Phantom of the Opera with rabies, I wouldn't be caught dead down there. The rest of the arena is filthy enough as it is.
Although that dream Whiskey and I apparently shared is making me wonder if I should get over it. Perhaps the dream does mean something more.
