I clamber out of bed and head to the bathroom to take a very cold shower.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sitting in my usual chair,I wait for Valdemar to be brought in. It’s been a week since I’ve seen him and seven nights of the same goddamn dream.
It’s consumed me during the waking hours as well as during sleep. I’ve tried sleeping on the sofa, drinking herbal teas, and exercising before bed in the hope that I’ll banish the dream. But no matter what I do, every night I’m on the balcony, the silver dress clinging to my body, craving him like a junkie needing a hit. And what sickens me the most is the fact that when I wake, I’m hot and panting with a growing throb between my legs and a thirst for more.
I woke this morning still feeling the vibrations of Valdemar’s touch on my skin as if his hands had only been there seconds before. The ache within me has been unbearable, but I’ve not given in and relieved myself, as I will not yield to this demonic dream.
He murdered my brother.
He took Ed’s life from him with the simple pull of the trigger.
He killed the other half of me.
Yet, when I move, I can feel the memory of his hand, his fingers, the tremor of the orgasm.
I can feel it all.
He enters the room with a swagger, his head low and a glint in his eye, his broad shoulders swaying, his hair scraped back into a smooth bun. Trying to block out the recollection of his fingers inside me, I stare at him, stony-faced and tight-lipped, until he sits down.
“Are you sleeping any better?” Valdemar enquires.
“Why do you ask?” I snap. Why would this be his first question? Then I remember that last week, he told me I looked tired, and his parting words had been something to do with getting a better night’s sleep.
“There’s colour in your cheeks,” he observes.
Fuck.
“Yes. No. I mean, I have been getting some sleep.” There’s no way he can know about the dream. Unless he’s a goddamn mind-reader. The thought prickles my skin. “Your gift. Can you read minds?” I ask, though I almost don’t want to know.
He smirks and gazes at me from underneath his thick lashes. “Fortunately not.”
Hiding my relief, I ask, “Why fortunately? I thought that would be a great gift.”
“Being plagued with the thoughts of everyone in the room is more like going mad than a gift. Not something I would like to endure. Living with my own thoughts is bad enough,” he says.
Jupiter springs to mind, and I ask, “Are there Raven Hands with this gift?”
“Not for many years. Our gifts aren’t something we talk openly about.” He glances at the table, something I know people do when they don’t want to talk about the subject you’ve raised, but I won’t be deterred.
“Why?”
“Because they’re personal to us.” Valdemar sits back in his chair, as if he’s keeping his secrets at bay.
I’ve never told anyone I can see the dead. It’s not something I feel comfortable talking about, and Valdemar is right—it’s personal. But mine isn’t a gift. A curse, yes, but a gift, no.
“How did you become a Raven Hand?” Folding my arms, I try not to look at his hands.
“I’ve always known, deep down, that I didn’t belong with the rest of society, but I didn’t officially become a Raven Hand until I was seventeen.”
“That young?” It shouldn’t come as a surprise. The corruption in this city doesn’t discriminate against age.
“My mother was a single parent. My dad walked out on her the minute he found out she was pregnant. She worked three different jobs to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads. She was always working, whether it be cleaning the offices in Charmion Square or waiting tables at The Haunted Palace restaurant.”
“So, you were left to your own devices.”
“To fend for myself in every way possible. But only because she didn’t have a choice.” His eyes soften. “I was walking the streets one night, trying to avoid being alone in the apartment. I’d been texting my mother, telling her I was okay and that I was on my way home, when a man came up behind me and grabbed my phone from my hand.
