“Is it the nightmares? Are they still troubling you?”
“Yes. And I’m jumpy. On edge. I can’t rest…” I yammer.
She studies my face briefly. “Same dream?”
“Same dream…” I sigh.
When she saunters over to where her purse sits on the table across the room, a wave of smoky fragrance reaches my nostrils. She returns with a vial, which she presses into my palm. It’s got a pale white liquid inside it, contrasting her red manicure.
“Use it for a few nights,” she says. “Not more than two drops.”
I peer down at the small object, wrapping my fingers around it. Hive women are famous for these types of tinctures—they can put down men twice their size, temporarily or for good. Although this is a mild version, my father would chastise me if he knew I was taking it. I’m not allowed alcohol or drugs or anything that clouds the mind—ever. But I’m too sleep deprived to care at this point.
“Thank you,” I say, relief coursing through me. I take the vial and find my own purse, hiding it well.
Ms. Donatello nods. “Now sit back down and let’s go through your recital again.”
An hour later,when the sun is setting, a guard who isn’t Enzo drives me back home. I managed to get him off work today by complaining about his cologne—that it made me nauseous.
We ride in silence as my mind races through the latest events. At the very least, I’m no longer jumpy, knowing where Mikhail will be from now on.
Exhaustion weighs heavier on me this evening, shifting my thoughts to my comfortable four-poster bed. With Ms. Donatello’s tincture, I should be able to fall asleep with no problem now.
And I do.
Once I’m home and my head hits the pillow, it’s like my body finally remembers how to rest. My eyes flutter slowly, the spell of night enveloping me in drowsiness. The weight of my sheets feels just right. My skin feels soft and warm after I’ve showered,and I lose more and more of my consciousness with every breath.
And then?—
The mattress dips to my right under new weight that isn’t mine.
A low hum spears the silence, the warm breath that comes with it running down the back of my neck. Goosebumps erupt in its wake, making my eyes flutter open.
The first thing I see is the clock on my nightstand, which is now showing four AM.
Am I awake? Or am I dreaming?
“Easy to find…easy to get to,” a voice says, making my heartbeat stop.
There’s someone here. There’s someone in my room.
I must be dreaming, because not a single inch of my body can move.
I focus on my limbs, on pushing into the mattress, but everything feels too heavy. I’m paralyzed, drowsy in a way only Ms. Donatello’s tincture—or a sleep paralysis episode—can make me.
There’s a hand—a knuckle, warm and weightless, that skitters down my back. It’s curious, endearing almost. Eerily present and responsive to the goosebumps erupting there too.
A whimper leaves my throat, muffled and scratchy.
“Am I in your dreams, pretty girl?” the voice asks, and I realize who it belongs to.
Mikhail.
Of course it’s him.
Which means I reallymustbe dreaming, because the real Mikhail is locked up downstairs.
“Yeah, I am,” he chuckles, his hand brushing my silk nightgown until it reaches my thighs. “Keep dreaming, then. Tell me where you need to be touched.”
