I want to reach for her, soothe her nightmares away.
Instead, I reach for the sketchbook she left on the bed beside her. I need to see what she’s been drawing. I need to know what’s inside her head.
The first picture is of a couple smiling at one another. They’re headed in different directions but looking back at each other, fingers still entwined.
Another sketch of them clinging to each other. Kissing. She’s spent time on them, shading their faces. You can see the passion in their expressions and the way they hold each other.
She’s so alone. Night after night. She pushes people away. She’s built herself a prison and calls it safe.
I turn the page, and my whole body goes rigid.
The man on the page is more than familiar. Dark hair, glaring eyes—it’s me.
How does she know? She hasn’t seen me.
She was blindfolded at her own request.
She’s never seen my face. Right?
I’m questioning everything.
This is the extent of her gift. This is what she’s hiding and why she works so hard to keep the world at bay.
My hand shakes as I turn the page. There I am again. In this one, I’m in a thoughtful pose. Perched on my hand is a little bird with a distinct pair of tail feathers.
A swallow.
I shut the sketchbook, my throat dry. This is too much.
She’s won this round. I am undone. And she doesn’t even know it. She won’t know it, either, not until I reveal myself to her.
That moment is coming soon. I will be ready.
“Sweet dreams, little bird,” I murmur and leave her to her dreams.
6
Inara
In my dream,someone is standing over me. A figure shrouded in darkness. I strain but can’t see who it is.
But then he speaks.Little bird. . .His voice is dark and lovely and tinged with amusement. I want to reach for him, but I can’t; I can’t. . . he’s tied me down.I’ll use rope.I struggle to make sure I can’t get free. I need to know that I’m tightly bound, that he won’t let me go. And once I know the ropes won’t budge, I relax so completely I could cry.
He’s here. I’m safe.
And he’s touching me. Oh gods, he’s touching me, his fingers strong and sure as they blaze a path down my skin. Leaving marks I hope last forever.
My body arches upward as my orgasm cracks me in half. I thrash upward, wrenching out of the sheets I’ve tangled myself in. There’s a scent lingering in the air—a woodsy cologne with a bitter, chemical edge.
I’m alone, but my head is groggy. I feel that presence lingering at the edge of the bed as if someone has been here, watching me sleep. Watching over me.
I reach for my gun, but it’s not there. Instead, there’s my sketchbook, open to the last page I filled.
The charcoal image of a man with a strong jaw and smoldering eyes. The subject is in Thinker’s pose, regarding the little bird perched on his fist. The dom from Club Empire sketched as I imagined him.
I find my gun on the countertop in the kitchen with my keys. Definitely not where I left it. But the door is locked with the deadbolt thrown, and the security system is still armed.
Maybe I was sleepwalking? But my limbs feel heavy like I’ve been sleeping hard for a long, long time.
