A chill trickles down the back of my neck.
The under-cabinet lights highlight small grease stains on the splashbacks above the hob. Ignoring them, I return my gaze to my mother. Her hands rest on the table as she watches me intently.
The note is between us, its contents belying how innocent it looks—just paper and words and not the death sentence it is.
“What am I going to do, Mother? What have I got myself involved in?”
She stares at me, her eyes so wide, so full of love, and I wish more than anything that she could answer me, tell me what I need to do, what the next step is. Instead, she reaches for my hand, which I give her. As I do, she disappears, and I’m left alone in the kitchen, the tap dripping and the clock ticking.
The thoughtof sleeping tonight fills me with a mixture of anxiety and curiosity. After the drama of the fight, I haven’t had time to consider what Valdemar confessed about his gift, the confirmation of his ability to visit me in my dreams and to leave puncture wounds on my neck.
Knowing he’s seen me laid bare, legs spread, and screaming his name only heightens the embarrassment of something that already felt illicit and dangerous. Irritation bores into my skin at the fact that I can’t seem to control myself in the dreams, that I’m under his influence even though he professed the opposite. He told me my body was only doing what my subconscious willed, but I don’t buy it. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want him to see me the way he does.
At least, I thought I didn’t. Today, when he held me, I let him. I felt safe. It felt so right, like I belonged, just like in my dreams, and the thought makes me want to cry.
Having never felt the safety of my mother’s arms, I grew up with a hardened shell, no touch to gently thaw it. My dad wasn’t the hugging type even when he was around, and the rest of the family kept their distance, always a little unnerved by the pale twins who had managed to kill their mother.
Ed had never hugged me. We’d never needed physical contact. Our wordless bond was enough.
In the bathroom, I pull off my clothes and toss them in the laundry bin, shivering against the chill that permeates my apartment. Reaching for my nightshirt that hangs on the radiator, I stop for a second as a thought blooms boldly in my mind. Deciding against the nightshirt, I then grab a towel and wrap it around myself as I pad back into the kitchen.
Holding on to the towel, I stare at Valdemar’s T-shirt that I threw on the table when I got in. The guard never questioned it when I left the prison, too preoccupied to notice an old prison-issue T-shirt.
Cautiously, I hold it to my nose and inhale, afraid of what memories it might conjure. As soon as his smell hits me, I’m back in his arms, warmth seeping through my body, a calm enveloping me like a drug.
It’s strange, unfamiliar, to feel this safe and comforted. It’s what I’ve been missing all my life, and I almost laugh at the prospect of a convicted murderer being the person to provide me with the one thing I’ve never had.
Unsure as to why I’m doing this, I let the towel drop and pull the T-shirt over my head before making my way into my bedroom and slipping under the covers.
Apprehension fizzes in my stomach. What if he doesn’t visit? What if he’s too ill to use his gift, his vision blurred, eyes still burning even in his sleep?
This feeling gnaws at my gut until I realise that the thought of him not visiting fills me with dread. For three weeks now, hisnightly visits have invaded my slumber, the narcotic I’ve needed to finally get a full night’s sleep, and now I’m hooked, addicted to his presence in a way I never thought possible.
Avoiding the question of how my feelings towards Valdemar Montresor have so quickly morphed into something I don’t care to assess, I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes, wondering where the night will take me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Blinking quickly,I let my eyes adjust to the gloom of the large room. Vaulted ceilings and corniced archways are evidence of its splendour, and the rows of orderly chairs with ornate legs and cushioned backrests tell me I’m standing on a stage.
There’s a clicking noise, and the stage is flooded with light. Placing my hand over my eyes, I squint at my new view, the blood red of the velvet backrests coming into view along with the dark wood of the floor, the gold legs of the chairs—and him.
He’s in the middle of the first row, wearing a white shirt and black dress trousers. His arms rest over the backs of the chairs on either side of him, and his right leg is balanced by its ankle on the other knee.
My mouth hangs open. Although I’ve heard him, felt him, touched him, I have never seen him in the dream before.
The dream.
This is a dream.
A dream he’s engineered.
For the first time, I feel a sense of place, of ownership over my thoughts.
“Nice choice of attire,” he says.
Glancing down, I smooth his T-shirt over my body, pulling on the hem to ensure it covers me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
