His gentle laugh tickles my fingertips.
I press onward. “You’re the most stunning, fearsome man I’ve ever seen. I must have conjured you from the darkest depths of my subconscious. Those primal corners where fear and attraction mingle.” I tap a knuckle on his breastplate. Solid. “I’m not sure why I’ve dressed you as a knight. The painting in the south gallery, perhaps? Though you don’t look particularly chivalrous.”
Curiosity dances through his eyes, and theVbetween his brows asks the question for him.
I gesture toward … all of him. “The sharp fangs, the wild hair, the piercings. If I have a shred of virtue left—which is debatable—I’m not entirely sure it would be safe around you.”
He dips his eyes to the ground and bites his lip ring. “I can assure you of two things,” he says, leaving me wondering how many impressionable humans could be lured to their demise by that heady timbre. Hundreds. Thousands, perhaps. “First, you’ll be entirely safe around me because you are now very much off-limits.” His soft hair brushes my throat as he leans down to whisper, “And second … this isn’t a dream.”
I pull back, contemplating the captivating symmetry of his face. The artist in me wants to run greedy fingertips over every chiseled plane, memorize the structure so I can draw him the moment I wake up. His is not a face I want to forget. “I am quite certain that’s exactly what my devious, dreaming mind would want me to believe.”
He grunts out a sound that may or may not be another laugh. “If His Grace arrives at breakfast and you aren’t there to join him, things could get very unpleasant. For me, not you. So, beautiful dreamer, for the sake of my head, will you please come with me?”
His Grace? Who is he talking about? I cross my arms and plant my feet, tipping my head up to meet his pleading gaze. “I will come with you.”
“Praise Danu,” he breathes out, swiveling toward his horse.
“If you can prove I’m not dreaming.”
He groans, a deeply masculine sound, thrilling despite its frustrated undertones, and turns back to me. “How?”
I offer up my wrist. “Bite me. Please.”
This time his laughter bursts forth, and it’s just as rich and supple as his voice. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and a dimple pops in his left cheek.
Adimple.
My subconscious is trying to annihilate me.
I shake my upturned wrist at him. “Just a little nibble will do.”
His tongue pokes out to tap the tip of a fang. “My nibbles are not little.”
I swallow. “Sir, I?—”
“Sir Lachlan Cathal.” He sketches a polite bow. “Upon your duty, my lady.”
I swat at the air. “Introductions are irrelevant. The moment I wake up, this entire exchange will no longer exist. I daresayyouwill no longer exist.”
Another ghost of a smile. “More’s the pity for me.”
His eyes search my face, as if trying to decide whether my request was serious. He must decide it is, because he grasps my wrist between callused fingers, his grip delicate despite hisobvious strength. My heart kicks into a mad rhythm as he lifts my wrist to his mouth and bites down.
Hard.
“Ouch!” I yank my arm away, skin throbbing. “That hurt.”
He has the audacity to shrug, but does not apologize. “You said you wanted to be woken up.”
I cradle my wrist in my other hand, spying two deep red circles near my tendon where a tiny bead of blood bubbles. I rub my thumb across it to ease the sting.
Which is no longer my primary dilemma.
He bit me. And I am … still here.
Heat builds in my cheeks, and my too-shallow breathing accelerates at an alarming pace. But Sir Cathal is the picture of focused calm as he says again, very softly, “You are not dreaming.”
The tightness in my chest is real. The pain in my wrist is real.
