A hand closed over her mouth.
A large male hand.
Panic seizing her, Sullha shook awake, her eyes registering the dark room and the face hovering inches above hers. The scream that had already been lodged in her throat expanded, choking her, and she threw her hands up to claw at the hand blocking her airways before registering the familiar features of the face that came with that hand.
"It's me," Yaaf whispered. "Don't scream. It's just me."
Just him? As if that was supposed to calm her down.
For a moment, dream and reality converged one on top of the other like two movies projected on the same screen, and she could not tell them apart or tell which one was what. The eight faces or the one.
"Can you promise not to scream if I remove my hand? You'll scare Tomek if you do."
Reminding her of her son was like a splash of cold water that dispelled the last vestiges of that dream, the horror draining out of her as if someone had pulled the plug on the pool of panic that had flooded her.
Only Yaaf was with her and Tomek in the room, his hand gentle but firm over her mouth and his eyes full of concern.
Her fingers on his wrist loosened, and she tried to nod, which was impossible because his hand was still holding her down.
Sensing the change, he slowly lifted his hand from her mouth, ready to clamp it back on if needed.
Sullha sucked in a deep breath and stared up at him, dread replacing the horror.
Had he entered her mind and seen her dream?
If he could skim thoughts of other people, he could collect their dreams as well.
Which parts had he skimmed?
Had he been there when she was writhing in pleasure under him, or had he arrived only to witness her horror when his friends had invaded their private space?
Oh, wait. There was no private space for them because the other seven were always in Yaaf's mind, seeing what he saw, feeling what he felt. They didn't need to be with her and him in the room to share the experience.
Sullha opened her mouth to ask but then closed it.
She was such a coward.
It was easier to pretend that the dream had never happened, that Yaaf had never told her that he loved her. Choosing not to ask, not to know, not to say the words that would make it real and require her to deal with it.
"You scared me," she whispered instead.
"I'm sorry." His voice was soothing. "I needed to wake you up, and I didn't expect you to panic when you saw me."
It was still dark outside the window, and there was no sound to indicate that anyone in the enclosure was stirring except for the night patrol. Beside her, Tomek was sleeping, his breathing even and untroubled despite the commotion.
"Why did you need to wake me up in the middle of the night? What's happening?"
"Dawn is approaching, and I need you to assemble the women. We are moving out today." Yaaf drew back enough to give her room to sit up.
The thin blanket slid down, and she was suddenly and absurdly aware of the dream and the way her body had reacted. The urge was to pull the blanket up with her, but she didn't want to pull it off Tomek.
His words suddenly registered, and she gasped. "Today?"
He nodded. "We had to change the timeline."
She stared at him. "But nothing's ready. The idea was to tell the women the exact timing during the evening meetings in the playground. How am I going to assemble them in the small hours of the night without raising the alarm?"
"I'll cover you. No one will see you."
