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“A little.”

“Don’t be. That was fantastic. It certainly made me forget.”

“Me too,” I whisper. “More than I had hoped.”

He kisses me again. “I want so much more.”

“Me too.”

“Oh, Emily, I could lie here with you forever, and it would never be long enough.”

“I’d like that.”

He pulls me into his arms and kisses my forehead, and we lie quiet and fulfilled for a few unearthly moments. I close my eyes and inhale the scent of the man I love. It’s heavenly.

After a while, reality seeps into my consciousness. “Are we okay for time?” I ask.

“Shit!” Tristan glances around, and his eyes grow wide with alarm. He moves me off him and leaps to his feet, then pulls me up to stand beside him. In front of us, the mist has formed, and deep within, I see muted figures in its shadows. They are moving closer. One in particular, a hooded figure in black, is followed by two in white, and it’s getting nearer. They glide slowly toward us rather than walk like the other figures further back in the swirling fog.

“Fuck, Emily. Wake up.”

“What?”

“You have to go. Wake up.” Tristan grabs my hand as the figures slide out of the mist about ten meters in front of us. Their faces are shrouded by the robes that swamp them, and a chill creeps over my skin.

“Beauchamp. Go. Wake. Now. Please.” He tugs my hand and starts running away from the mist into the empty, barren landscape, dragging me after him. “Run! Wake!” he shouts and jerks my hand. We run—run like I’ve not run since I was running from Dylan and Lulu. “Wake up!” Tristan shouts again, and I trip and fall, sprawling on the mossy ground.

I sat up, breathless and sweating in the confines of my bed in Chiswick. “No! Tristan!” I called, wildly scanning the room.

It was dark, the moon had moved on, and I checked my phone beside the bed. It read 1:15 a.m. The house was quiet, and I strained to listen for some semblance of life, some sound.

But there was nothing. No sound. No smell. Then, in the distance, a fox cried an eerie call to its mate and startled me.

Hell! Anxiety bloomed in my stomach. Tristan. What had happened to Tristan? Who were those sinister figures in the mist? Fear gripped my heart, and I put my hands over my mouth to contain it and felt my swollen lips.

What? That happened!

Tristan and me. My lips were swollen from Tristan’s kisses.

Did all that really just happen? A delicious quiver tightened my insides confirming what I already knew.

And my panties were damp.

Yes. It had.

It had for both of us. Such a magical interlude—a first for him and me—and for a minute or two, I forgot my fear as I relived those precious moments.

Outside my bedroom door, I heard a floorboard creak, and it frightened me out of my erotic reverie. What the hell? I hadn’t noticed any creaking floorboards before. Slowly, the door swung open.

Oh my god.

I grabbed the duvet, pulling it up to my chin, and held my breath, ready to scream. Who was there? A familiar scent rolled into the room much to my relief, but it was Dylan who stood on the threshold dressed only in his pajama bottoms. My relief was swift and strong. Oh, thank heavens. I scanned the room looking for Tristan, but he hadn’t appeared.

Dylan walked through the door, as if in a dream, and my relief was short-lived. What was wrong with him? His gait was odd and unfamiliar. And I thought he might be sleepwalking.

“Hi,” I said into the darkness.

He shuffled to the bed, and my alarm increased. He was sleepwalking. He must be, but he’d never done it before.