An electric shock shoots up my arm so hard my throat closes. I exhale slowly, willing the muscles to relax.
It’s just a dance.
It’s not just a dance! This is everything.
For Nightmare, maybe.
Keep telling yourself that.
We move to the center of the room, and Chelsea walks like she’s floating on a cloud. When we’re in position, I wrap one hand around her waist. She inhales sharply, and I squeeze her slightly.
“Don’t worry. You’re safe with me.”
As she slides her hand over my shoulder, she smirks. “You sure about that?”
“Actually, no.”
She stifles a laugh. “That’s what I thought. No man can run this district, these people, rule over the world of dreams?—”
“Nightmares,” I correct.
“Rule the world of nightmares and be one hundred percent safe.”
“Safe comes with predictability. And predictability is boring.”
A shadow falls across her face. “Safe is sometimes the best option.”
“And when is that?”
“When you might die.”
I toss my head back and laugh. “And what sort of death are you afraid of, Chelsea?”
She shivers, like the sound of her name dripping from my lips ripped something open inside her.
It’s ripping something open in me. Dip her. Do the tango! Cha-cha! Stop with this stupid box step.
She moves like molten mercury in my arms—effortless, light. I lift my hand and spin her. For just a breath, as she turns, our magic touches—gold threading through shadow. The roses on the back wall bloom brighter.
So bright, I hope she doesn’t notice. Not because I don’t want her to, but because it feels…
Intimate,Nightmare whispers.
Intimate.
The magic settles, and her pink skirt slaps against my slacks with just enough friction to make me steel myself.
“What sort of death should I be afraid of?”
I pretend to think about that. “The mortal kind is so…pedestrian. That’s not you, not with those sparkly shoes. No, I think you’re afraid of a different sort of death, the kind that would snuff out your light, dim your sparkle.”
She swallows and drops her gaze like sadness just grabbed hold of her and squeezed.
Something twists low in my ribs.
I drop my lips to her ear and whisper, “What you should do right now is ask me what sort of death I’m afraid of.”
That brings the light back into her eyes, but it isn’t what she asks. “I already know what kind of death you’re afraid of.”
