Page 5 of Dreamscape Therapies

Dark circles ring my bloodshot blue eyes. My light brown hair is doing whatever the fuck it wants, and my beard looks like I trimmed it in the dark with a pair of dull scissors.

The truly pathetic part?

I’m a Skinwalker, so I could literally shift my appearance and make myself look rested, healthy, and put together.

But that would require energy.

And right now, the thought of expending even a fraction of my energy on looking pretty makes me want to lie down and die.

I slam the visor shut and shove open the car door, immediately stepping into a mud puddle.

“Fuck,” I curse as cold water floods my shoe.

Of course. Of fucking course that’s how this day is starting. Wet socks and a therapy appointment with some guy who is probably going to tell me to journal my dreams or some shit.

I pull my fleece jacket tighter around myself and look toward the building.

It looks like it’s somewhere between renovation and demolition. Plastic sheeting covers the windows, a tall ladder leans against the siding, and a pile of cheerful blue daisy-patterned tiles sits stacked on the porch.

I make my way toward the front door, carefully avoiding the exposed nails sticking out of the old porch. The windows on either side of the door are nothing but plastic sheeting, snapping and flapping in the cold breeze.

I raise my fist to knock, but the door swings open before I can complete the downward motion. I yelp like a startled dog and jerk backward.

There’s a splintering crack, and my foot goes straight through a rotten porch board. Then I’m on my ass, hard, with all the grace of a drunken giraffe.

“Oh my gods!”

I look up, and there, standing in the doorway, is a man in a sweater vest. That’s right. A fucking sweater vest. It’s ugly. I’m talking Chandler Bing-style ugly.

A collared shirt is tucked neatly beneath it.

The whole outfit is topped off with thick black-framed glasses resting on his perfectly pert nose.

He looks like Harry Potter’s East Asian cousin who got really into cardigans and talking about feelings, and this is the guy who’s supposed to fix me?

He rushes toward me, hands fluttering around me like anxious birds without actually touching me. “Are you okay? I thought I heard someone outside, so I came to check, but I wasn't expecting you to be standing right there when I opened the door and…”

“Stop. It’s fine. I’ll live,” I mutter, holding out a hand silently asking for his help.

When he grabs it, electricity shoots up my arm.

I’m not talking about metaphorical electricity either.

I mean actual fucking lightning.

Every nerve ending in my body instantly snaps awake. My chest tightens and my brain goes static-fuzzy. Something deep inside of me surges toward him, instinctive and immediate.

Mine.

At the exact same time, another instinct screams, Run.

I yank my hand away like he’s burned me.

His expression changes for a second, hurt flashing across his face, quick and devastating, before he smooths it away behind a professional smile.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’ll live, sadly.” Hopefully he’ll understand that I have dark humor and not a suicide wish. I really shouldn’t make jokes like that around a person who has the authority to lock me in a padded room and throw away the key.