"Henri—" His name is a sob. I lean into his touch, seeking more.
"Almost, sweet girl. You're so perfect when you let go. I could do this all night—watch you shake, watch you beg, watch you try so hard to please me."
He starts thrusting again, his thumb pressing harder against my clit. The orgasm builds quickly, and just as I'm about to chase it, he withdraws completely.
I open my eyes, crying out as my hips jerk uselessly.
That's when I notice the garden has shifted around us. The roses bleed from red to white to red again. And when I turn to look up at him…
His face is different.
The beard is the same, but his jaw is sharper beneath it. His eyes aren't brown anymore—they're gray, pale and piercing. A color so unique I spent years trying to forget.
"Tristan?"
He smiles, and it's the same one he used to give me in darkened hotel rooms and borrowed beds—the one that promised filthy things and always delivered.
"Took you long enough, Red."
Red.
"You're not—" I shake my head, trying to make sense of it. "Henri was just?—"
"Henri?" He tilts his head, studying me with those familiar wolf-gray eyes. "Is that what you've been calling me?"
"I don't understand."
His hand comes up to cup my face, and the touch is so achingly familiar I want to scream. "You don't have to."
My breath catches. "How do you—I can't."
"You can." He leans in, kissing me desperately. And I let him. "You will. When you're ready. When you remember."
"Remember what?"
When he pulls away this time, it's Tristan's old face—copper-brown hair, no beard. The same one I fell in love with all those years ago.
"That you were always mine."
The dream disintegrates.
I feel it coming apart around me like tissue paper in rain—the garden dissolves, the roses start to wilt, Tristan's face blurs at the edges.
"Find me." His voice is already fading. "I'm right here, Keira. I've always been right here."
"Wait—" I call out, but darknessrushes in.
I wake gasping.
My hands clutch at sheets that smell like lavender detergent and captivity. My heart slams against my ribs. Between my thighs, I'm slick and throbbing, the phantom pressure of his fingers still lingering in my nerve endings.
For one delirious moment, I can still feel him. The weight of his hands. The heat of his mouth. The way he saidgood girl.
Then reality settles in like a nightmare.
I'm in my room. In Calder's house. Alone.
It was just a dream.
