He was outlandishly handsome, this demon who could choose to look any way he wanted. Of course he’d gone with tall, dark, and devastating. He probably thought those good looks would make me forget what he was really made of: fire, brimstone, and treachery.
“Get out.”
“But I’m just a dream,” he said with fake innocence. “I’m here because you want me to be.”
“This,” I waved a hand to indicate the bedroom, fuzzy at the edges, the house that didn’t have any lingering scent of the cinnamon rolls I’d baked last night in a gift-induced frenzy, and the blankets that had settled properly around me instead of knotting up my legs, “is a dream. But you’re real.”
“Real dreamy?” He propped his arms behind his head so his wide, muscled chest and washboard six-pack were on full display. Bathin was not a small individual. He was well over six feet tall, and the width of his shoulders took more than half of the space of my queen-size bed.
Too bad he was a lying jerk.
“Not in the least,” I said. “You are invading my dream. Somehow. With your demon tricks.”
“I see.”
“And you need to stop it.”
“My demon tricks?”
“Invading my dream. Go. Leave. Go away.”
He smiled, the laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes. He was gorgeous, spread half-naked in my bed. Even though I knew he had somehow found a way to get into my dream just to mess with me, there was a moment—a heartbeat or two—where I wished he wasn’t really here. That I could have this dream,mydream.
No matter how much I knew it was wrong, I was attracted to him. To what he wanted me to think he was.
A warm breeze stirred the curtains, mixing the warm air with the salty scent of the nearby ocean.
It was September, and the beach-going swarms of tourists had been thinning even though the weather was still mild. A lot of the gods had returned from their forced exit a year ago, and still more were arriving at a fairly steady rate.
But this demon showed no signs of leaving.
I bit my bottom lip, wondering if there were any spells in the library Dad had left in my keeping that might solve my problem.
Bathin’s gaze ticked down to my mouth and stayed there, focused. “I thought you said I was your dream.”
“What?”
His gaze slipped up, held mine. “This is a dream, Myra. You’ve already decided it is, though I don’t know why.”
“No cinnamon.”
One eyebrow twitched. “Cinnamon?”
“I baked last night. Cinnamon rolls for Roy’s retirement party.”
“And you…store them in your bedroom?”
“No, but I should be able to smell cinnamon.”
“The door’s closed.”
“Still.” I shrugged.
“I could make it smell like cinnamon.”
“To prove this is real?”
“Or to prove it’s a dream. Which would you prefer? To think you have invited me into your bedroom? Or to think this is a fantasy? Something secret, dark, forbidden?”
