Page 47 of Dreamscape Therapies

The pull.

The recognition.

The way your instincts know before your mind does.

I think back to the first time I saw Jay standing in the middle of that disaster of a house, covered in plaster dust, looking completely out of place and somehow exactly where he was supposed to be. The way my attention locks onto him and the inexplicable calm that settles over me whenever he’s near. The way my alpha had reacted to him from the beginning.

I'd assumed it was attraction or maybe loneliness.

But this?

This is different.

My inner alpha goes utterly still; then it fucking purrs deep and satisfied as certainty rolls through me.

Mine.

It's instinct, written into bone and blood. I couldn’t fight it any more than I could fight the tides.

We are meant to be.

Jay just doesn’t realize it yet.

He's still smiling, completely unaware that I’m his mate. I want to tell him. Gods, I want to scream it from the rooftops.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

“No reason,” I mutter, averting my gaze. I didn’t realize I was staring at him like a weirdo while he made sex noises to his drink.

Chapter Seventeen

I'm standing in Whistler's, except everything is wrong in that specific dream way where nothing makes sense but also makes perfect sense.

A squirrel in a tiny suit stands behind my bar, pounding a gavel made of yarn against the counter. His little paws can barely grip it.

"Order! Order!" he squeaks, his voice somehow echoing through the entire building. "As your newly elected mayor, I hereby declare free snacks for all citizens and shorter Mondays!"

The crowd cheers. I'm part of the crowd, apparently, because I'm cheering too even though I have no idea what a shorter Monday means. Does time move differently? Are we just removing hours from the day? My dream brain doesn't care about the logistics.

"Everyone must wear the official ceremonial garb," the squirrel announces, and suddenly I'm holding a knitted flamingo costume.

It's hot pink. The yarn is thick and scratchy against my palms, and when I pull it over my head, it smells like wet dog and artificial strawberries. The beak is stiff and pokes me in the eye. The wings are so bulky I can barely move my arms.

I look around. Everyone else is wearing matching flamingo costumes. We're a sea of hot pink knitted birds, all standing in my bar like this is completely normal.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, but my voice comes out muffled through the yarn beak.

The squirrel is mid-speech about the benefits of shorter Mondays when a goose waddles through the front door. It's enormous. Bigger than me. Its feathers are pristine white and it looks absolutely furious.

"EXCUSE ME," the goose honks, and the sound is so loud I flinch. "You squirrels have stolen EVERY bird feeder in this district!"

"We did not!" the squirrel squeaks indignantly.

"You absolutely did! I have witnesses!"

And then, because this is a dream and dreams don't follow logic, a full-scale war breaks out.

Geese pour through the door. Squirrels emerge from behind the bar. Yarn starts flying everywhere. Not just the flamingo costumes unraveling, but actual yarn from nowhere, tangling around everyone like living serpents. Feathers mix with wool fibers. The squirrels are chittering battle cries. The geese are honking in what I assume is geese war language.