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“You’re being bossy again.”
“Calla.”
There’s something almost desperate in the way he says my name.
I reach toward his chest.
My fingertips hover an inch above his skin.
His entire body goes rigid.
And just as I’m about to touch him, the temple begins to shake.
A deafening crack splits the air.
The marble beneath my feet fractures.
“Morpheus?”
His eyes widen.
“No.”
The columns explode.
White stone rains from the sky.
He lunges toward me.
“Calla!”
* * *
I bolt upright in bed with a gasp.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
The sheets are twisted around my legs, and my nightgown is damp with sweat.
Except I’m not wearing a nightgown.
I’m wearing the same oversized T-shirt I fell asleep in.
I glance around my bedroom.
No marble columns.
No candles.
No impossibly gorgeous Greek god demanding I touch him.
Just my familiar little apartment, the distant sound of traffic, and the steady patter of New Orleans rain against the windows.
I press a hand to my chest.
“What the actual hell?”
I’ve had vivid dreams before.
