A peaceful murkiness wrapped around me, suspending me in a reality that wasn’t quite sleep. I was in a dream world where everything was composed of flashes of images from my memories stitched together with lucid thoughts.
I wasn’t sure how long I drifted, allowing the current of colors and errant musings to take me where they would. I didn’t have a path. It wasn’t like I had a map, either. But then, one of my mating marks warmed, and when it grew cold again, I sent myself in the direction that had it buzzing with fresh sensation.
A scene took shape, but it wasn’t a product of my mind.
I’d never seen this place before.
I was in a stark white room that looked like a break room of some kind, with a fridge, a microwave, and a few tables. I took a tentative step toward the only man in the room.
He stood in front of a notice board, his broad shoulders hunched and his hands stuck in the pockets of his jeans, immersed in deep contemplation. His back was turned to me, but I guessed he was young by how tall and lithe he was.
I cleared my throat. “Um, hello?”
He didn’t turn around. Okay, so this was purely a memory. Knowing he couldn’t see or hear me, I approached him to get a good look at his profile. I gasped when the harsh fluorescents lit up the features of a teenaged Eros.
I’d never seen him so young. A quick internet search a few nights back on the new phone Corry had gotten me had told me the MMA fighter had been in his late twenties at the height of his career—before he was turned—almost ten years ago.
He couldn’t have been a day older than nineteen in this memory. I’d never seen him so thin. This was before his MMA career, where he’d built on his thick layer of muscle. He had the snake bites, though, at this point in his life, he’d yet to add the brow piercings.
His blond hair was long enough to fall around his jawline but hadn’t been shaved around the sides yet, and his beard was barely more than peach fuzz.
Fuck me, he was cute, a total heartthrob with that hint of mischief in his brown eyes, even as he examined the posters in front of him with a grimace.
My attention trailed to the notice board covered in wanted posters of various people—mostly dangerous supernaturals prowling Boston.
Holy shit. Was this a memory of him in his early days of the Helsing Guild?
I swiveled my gaze around to survey my surroundings one more time. It was an unassuming room that could have been the breakroom in any building for literally any company. Well, except for the wanted posters advertising ludicrous bonuses for vampire heads and demon horns.
Turning back to the board, a familiar face caught my attention.
I gasped.
No. Impossible.
But there she was.
Trinity Baxter.
My adopted mom stared blankly at the camera that had taken her picture, looking about twenty years younger than when I’d last seen her. Over Trinity’s black-and-white image was red lettering stamped somewhat disrespectfully over her forehead, reading “WANTED.”
I knew Trinity had gotten involved with the vampire king in some way or another. How else would she have gotten roped up in being my caregiver? It wasn’t a shock that the guild knew about her, but to consider her an enemy? I’d just assumed she’d been an unwilling participant in the whole babysitting gig she’d been saddled with.
There had to be more to the story….
Before I could scan the poster for more clues, the scene faded.
I wanted to explore more, but my disappointment melted into unbridled relief when Eros’ den materialized around me. This wasn’t a memory. This was a dream. I could feel it, taste it. It was more tangible and had my sadist’s scent all over it.
I was here.
I’d made it into his dreams!
His mark on my shoulder burned so hotly, but the pain might as well have been the most comforting of kisses. The dream was so lifelike, just like the ones in Sterling’s mind. Every tool on Eros' workbench gleamed and glittered in the light of the roaring furnace. Flames crackled and popped.
My ruthless reaper stood shirtless over what appeared to be his coffin, which he’d set on another table to elevate it to his waist height.
His dark blond brow crinkled with intense concentration, and his mouth set into a hard line. A sheen of sweat made his muscular torso glisten, his grim reaper tattoo looking ominous, swathed in strips of firelight and shadows as beads of perspiration streaked a path down the ripple of his chorded abdominal muscles.
