Lowering himself into his chair, he doesn’t take his eyes off me.
Chewing on the side of my cheek, I watch as his gaze falls from my face to the side of my neck, the bite mark peeping out of the open-necked shirt I’ve purposely worn.
“I owe you an apology, angel,” he says.
“You owe me more than that, goddammit,” I hiss like a kettle that’s reached boiling point.
“I lost control.” His stare is hard, like he’s trying to hold me down under it.
Fighting the urge to shout, I whisper through my teeth, “What the fuck?” The guards are poised by the back wall, and the other visitors are settling down to talk to their criminals. It won’t do to cause a scene. I can’t risk getting kicked out when I need confirmation of what I suspect is going on here. “Your gift.”
Now it’s me holding him under my glare.
“You can infiltrate people’s dreams, can’t you? And that’s what you’ve been doing with me, isn’t it?” I try to deliver this with venom, but by the time I reach the last question, my anger has turned to shame. I’m embarrassed to learn that he’s seen me naked, touched my body in the most intimate of ways, that he’s made me come over and over again, and that I’ve cried out his name as I’ve done so.
His silence is all the proof I need.
“The bite marks,” I begin, pulling my shirt up over my shoulder. “How did you…?” I don’t know how to finish the question, but Valdemar is ready with his answer.
“My gift allows me to visit people’s dreams. I see what you see, feel what you feel. And sometimes, when the dreams become intense, I can leave physical marks upon people, just like I did with you.”
“You can hurt people in their dreams?” I ask.
“It’s possible, yes.”
I don’t want to ask how often he’s hurt people in their dreams, how often he’s used his gift as a weapon against others, as it’s not them I’m thinking of right now but me.
“You’ve violated me in my sleep.” I stretch each word out, making sure he hears them loud and clear because I can’t raise my voice in here.
“I’ve done nothing of the sort.”
“How can you say that? I am asleep. It’s as good as coming into my room and assaulting me in the night.”
Valdemar’s cheeks flare, his face flush with anger. “No. I would never.”
“But you have. Repeatedly.” Crossing my arms, I sit back in the chair, trying to put some distance between us.
“I’ve never abused my gift with you. You don’t do anything your subconscious won’t allow you to,” he says.
“Bullshit,” I spit.
“It’s true.”
“So, when a person dreams of leaping off a building, you’re telling me that’s really what they want to do?” I have to fight to keep my voice down.
“For some people, yes. Dreams allow them to do the things they want to do in real life but can’t or won’t or aren’t brave enough to do. When you dream, your imagination is untamed and free from judgment, even your own,” he explains.
My laugh earns me a glare from the old guy sitting next to us.
“Is that what you tell yourself to keep your conscience clean?” I throw at Valdemar.
“I’d like to think you know me well enough to understand that my conscience is anything but clean and I have no desire to cleanse myself of all the terrible things I’ve done. And to add to that, I’d like to think that you know I would never do anything you weren’t comfortable with.”
“This is bullshit,” I repeat, shaking my head.
“Angel—” he begins, but I cut him off.
“Don’tangelme.”
