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Several mournful shrieks cut through the night, and I stiffen at the thought of the murder of bone crows diving for Zenya. My marrow grows colder—until a warmth glitters in the air before a soprano laugh rings through the air. Several feathers, carried upon the wind, drift across me like wild rose petals, echoing her heat and aura.
By Hypnos!—Zenya is not simply dream-walking anymore. She’s dream weaving!
Jealousy simmers beneath my skin—Nyxion has driven her to this, and an unfamiliar pang of envy throbs in my chest for the influence my brother holds over her. I am the one humans worship in their dreams. He is the one they fear.
If fear and horror were her only emotions, I’d think nothing of this interlude. But it’s impossible not to recognize the mania thrilling her blood and the sense of adventure lighting up her nerve endings.
Cloaking myself in shadows, I follow the sound and silhouette of Zenya dashing through Nyxion’s twisted forest maze, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
When the ground trembles and caves in to reveal Nyxion’s Grimwraiths, corpse-like warriors, who shake off the burial soil of my brother’s nightmarish land, I grit my teeth, wings clenching with anger. She deserves better than my brother’s twisted games.
The forest is alive with bones clattering and teeth gnashing.
The Grimwraiths herd her. Every shadow and whisper conspire to drive her into the waiting arms of her pursuers.
Zenya’s raw humanity, vulnerable and determined, is unlike any I’ve experienced. Her emotions are powerful enough to destroy Nyxion’s machinations, but her imagination proves to be her greatest ally.
Whenever a Grimwraith gets close enough for its claws to scrape her body, the air grows warmer with the release of her creation. In an instant, a bony hand changes into something new. Dead leaves at first. Scraps of skin become white lace.
A crone stalker turns into a child’s game of pick-up sticks that all tumble like a house of cards. The latest corpse wraith, who snarls hoarsely against her neck, turns into skeletal wind chimes dangling from the trees, dancing all around her. Her laughter follows.
What an enigma—intriguing with how close she keeps her darker nature. This woman with her hell of a black soul has more light and fight inside her than I’ve found in millions through the ages.
How I long to peer inside her soul until I’m staring right at her monsters…and transform them into her sweetest dreams.
What a light she holds in this deepest darkness. I can almost imagine broken wings growing from her shoulders, proving she is a fallen angel.
As I track her into a small clearing where she stumbles, faltering for the first time, her essence flickering with exhaustion, I make my move. Once the vibrations of her footfalls resonate into my being, and the rapid beating of her heart practically thunders in my ears, I step out of the shadows and wrap my arms around her.
So much warmth and life pulsing through her, such violent emotion, the torrent of all she is threatens to devour me.
Split-second panic flares in her blood as she struggles against me. Some deep part of her recognizes she can’t change me into whatever she desires. Weaving will never affect the God of Dreams.
“Shh,” I whisper in her ear.
“Let go!”
By Hypnos!—she thrashes like a wild creature. When the mind makes everything real, her body is a mirrored image of her waking life. Her limbs are strong. Her curves tantalize. Her tattoos spark with the vitality she carries, and I shake my head with a disbelieving laugh since they try to defend her—and face off with my shadows.
Most of all, her passion is like chemistry and hunger clawing into me, stiffening my cock in a way no human has ever done. A need, both primal and possessive, grips me. I feel her desperation, her will to resist, and yet, there is something else—something that stirs me in a way I’ve never experienced.
I am the legendary God of Dreams. No other bears my skill.
Even my brother’s ability to control and manipulate nightmares pales to my power. My domain alone encompasses the vast expanse of dreamscapes. I should not desire a mortal girl or care about her ability to shape dreams. If I could dismiss it as the stolen energy inside her, but her essence pulses with something deeper. Her soul seems to hold two worlds inside it—ones rivaling the other—mirroring the duality of my brother and me.
Her ink, however compelling and diverse, amuses me with the symbols storming her skin with their chaotic energy. Almost maniacal. My shadows consume each one, sending them back to her flesh.
“Be still…” I growl low, wrapping my shadows around her, protecting and confining her as her breath leaves in tattered gasps. I may love how her body feels when she wriggles against me.
“Who are you?” she pants, then swallows hard, her pulse tearing through her veins. Her arms are still tense, her fingers white-knuckled with her battle.
With my theories confirmed, I should have no other priority but to return her to her world. It’s a miracle alone that her soul is alive to bear what Nyxion has done. This miracle, both strange and wondrous, unsettles me with my fascination.
Zenya’s struggles against my embrace send ripples through my being. This carnal hunger is unfamiliar, stirring my senses, igniting my spirit, and surging more blood to my godhood.
I breathe her in as she starts to settle, her head tipping back onto my shoulder. But I don’t give her my face yet. Instead, I absorb all the shadows in the forest, forbidding her to look upon me.
I sense her confusion as she huffs. “Are we playing hide-and-seek or do you just like being shady?”
