“It’s book one.” I shrug.
“Why?” Her eyes pop. “Really, you shouldn’t…”
Odd. Down our bond, I get the sense she truly does not want me to read her books. There’s a hint of embarrassment. “Just want to get to know you better.” When that seems to make her even more uncomfortable, I add, “I do this with all my prisoners. Helps me to understand who I’m dealing with.”
She looks away from me, toward the ceiling. “Fine.”
“Are you hungry? You didn’t eat much dinner.”
“No. Just tired.”
“Thirsty?”
“No.” She sounds annoyed again.
I lean back, put the footrest up. “More reason for me to stay in here. In case you need help again or get hungry later.” I open the cover on my e-reader and start to read.
She sighs. “Suit yourself.” She closes her eyes, but she’s restless. She’s feeling it too, this magnetic attraction the creator built into all mates. She doesn’t understand it, and fighting it is keeping her awake. I send a curl of dragon energy her way, wrapping it around her mind and encouraging her to relax, to let go.
Minutes pass, and her breath evens out. I feel her slip into sleep.
Up until now, I’ve only read the thoughts she’s projected into my head, made louder by the bond between us. But I need to make sure our connection isn’t making me blind to a trick by the Saint’s Order. She wasn’t forthcoming on our walk today, and I need to be damned sure she’s telling the truth about her knowledge and involvement with Roman and the Order.
Dreamwalking isn’t something dragons do casually. Jumping inside someone’s head is risky. You never knowwhat you might find in a place where there are no physical restraints or social mores. I don’t relish stumbling upon my mate dreaming about Roman, for example, but I’m aware it’s possible. One could also argue that it’s a violation. No doubt there are ethical lines I’m crossing. But I dismiss any qualms immediately. I’m warranted because she’s technically the enemy since she was marrying into the Order.
Plus she’s our mate,my dragon adds. Must learn what brings her pleasure. Must prime her mind to our affections.He coils and chuffs inside me, causing my wings to twitch and the tips of my talons to sprout from my second knuckle. Sweat breaks out on my brow again, and my stomach pitches. Mating sickness. It’s getting worse with her nearness. I close my eyes and will myself under control.
The truth is, I could accomplish everything I need to without dreamwalking, but it would take too long. I’m a man of action. This is the fastest road to where we’re going—everywherewe’re going—and I’m taking it. To her it will all feel like a dream anyway. I’ve got nothing to lose and no one to stop me.
I dive into her head.
Blackness, that’s always the way it begins, then everything goes hazy like I’m walking through a cloud. Once the clouds part, I find myself in a swanky cocktail lounge, the mirrored wall behind the bar reflecting shiny bottles of top-shelf liquor. Interesting. This is not what I expected to find in Fiona’s dreams.
A slim woman in a strappy red dress sits at the bar, her back to me. This figure is at the center ofthe dream. That’s how I know it’s her. Fiona’s hair in real life is a dark auburn, a deep brown that holds a hint of red when it catches the light. In her dreams, her hair is the color of honey. Almost blond. Dream Fiona is also taller than in real life, slimmer, the muscles of her back and shoulders toned as though she’s been practicing ballet since childhood.
It’s not surprising that Dream Fiona doesn’t look like Fiona in real life. Most humans hold a version of themselves in their dreams that doesn’t match reality. In dreams, their self-image is constructed, carefully curated, and sometimes pieced together from celebrity parts they especially admire. It’s normal. Only, it’s hard for me to swallow because in Fiona’s case, reality is so much better than this. I glance down at myself, in my jeans and flannel, and decide I don’t fit the surroundings. I mentally construct a new outfit. A dark tuxedo jacket over a black shirt and slacks. Formal but on the casual side. Something James Bond would wear to the casino. That’s what this scene reminds me of, something out of James Bond.
I swagger up to the bar just as the bartender slides a lemon-drop martini in front of her, stating her drink order as if he could possibly have confused her with someone else. She’s the only one in here. I take a seat on the stool beside her, but when I get a better view of her profile, I almost cringe. The woman in the red dress is undeniably beautiful, but her face is not Fiona’s.
This is highly unusual. People don’t normally center someone else in their dreams. I glance around the bar again, perplexed.
What exactly is going on here?
All the features of Red Dress’s face are hard, cold, angular. Her green eyes are positively icy as she brings her martini to her lips. I catch her looking at me without turning her head.
“Buy you a drink?” She pivots on her stool, turning the full force of a straight white smile in my direction. Stunning. Of course she is. She isn’t real.
“Isn’t that my line?” I say, playing along. “When a man approaches a beautiful woman at a bar, he’s usually the one to offer.”
“But I already have a drink,” she says, soft as a kitten’s breath. “How will it look if you aren’t also drinking?” Her jaw clenches, and she straightens on her stool. “Order. A. Drink.”
I raise a finger and order a scotch, neat. The bartender pours it with a flourish.
Only when he’s gone does she speak again. “Have you brought the package?”
“The package?”
She rubs her temple with two perfectly manicured fingers. “Jesus, Henrik, I don’t have time for these games. Did you get it or not?”
