Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
FIONA
I ’m officially a bad person. I’m one of those women you read about in online gossip magazines, rife with problems so deep and complex there is no other explanation than a chronic habit of bad decision-making. By some ironic act of fate, I am lusting after my kidnapper.
I crawl back into bed, more tired than I should be from such a short walk, my mind reeling. The electricity that flowed through my body when Connor carried me back to the house still hums in my veins, and images of his eyes, his lips, his wings flash across my mind.
Do I have a wing fetish or something? Is that a thing?
None of this makes sense. He kidnapped me! From my wedding! I should be planning my escape and cowering in fear every time he enters the room, not having feelings of sexual attraction. But that’s exactly what I’m feeling. Every time I look at him, it’s like I’m on a swing at the top of the arc and my stomach is doing that dropping thing just before I swing in the opposite direction. My entire body wants to smile in his presence. Some kind of dragon mind trick? It has to be.
None of this makes sense. From the moment I first saw him at my would-be wedding, my entire world has been out of control. And today, if I’m being honest with myself, his accusation came far too close to the truth. Money did play a part in my almost marrying Roman. The fact that a stranger can see it is almost too much to bear.
I hold up my left hand and look at the gaudy iceberg that serves as my engagement ring. Roman shot at me. Shot at me with a goddamned crossbow. A medieval weapon. I remember the bolt brushing my side as it cut through the lace of my dress. And if that’s not the weirdest part, Connor, the man with wings who abducted me from that shit show, looks disturbingly like one of my characters. Now here I am in a lodge in the middle of nowhere, eating gourmet meals and being cared for by a man who is also apparently a dragon.
None of this makes sense. I wish I could talk to Vivian.
For a few minutes, I toss and turn, scissoring my legs under the covers. When I turn on my side and slide my hands under my head, the rock digs into my cheek. I roll onto my back again and slide the ring from my hand, placing it on the nightstand. I stretch my fingers and immediately feel better. Then I curl around the stuffed dragon and finally feel at ease. Ahhh .
CONNOR
For the rest of the day, I give Fiona her space, sensing she’s struggling with everything that’s occurred. It’s traumatic, I’m sure. If it’s true that she barely knew Roman, she’s learning she almost married a killer while also experiencing the draw of the mating bond, which has to be confusing to her human body. I want her to heal, and pushing her too fast or constantly pressing her for information isn’t what she needs right now. So I keep her well-fed but otherwise stay out of her hair.
It gives me time to start her books. No one would argue she’s a talented author, but I wonder if Roman’s interest in her is how close her work comes to reality. Alex Rogue destroys secret societies just like his. Or are her stories a ploy to cover up her part in that reality? I have to know for sure before I get any closer to her.
When night falls, I let myself into her room and take a seat on the recliner in the corner, where I have a clear view of her and the bed, my e-reader in my hands.
“Are you going to sit there all night and watch me sleep?” she asks, her voice a little breathless.
“Yes.” Fuck. That came out more dragon than man. I shift in the chair. Being in the same room as her does things to me. “I’m going to continue reading this book.” I hold up my device. “Alex is just about to infiltrate the seedy underbelly of elite academia.”
“You’re reading Skull and Bones ?” She huffs in surprise.
“It’s book one.” I shrug.
“Why?” Her eyes pop. “Really, you shouldn’t… ”
Odd. Down our bond, I get the sense she truly does not want me to read her books. There’s a hint of embarrassment. “Just want to get to know you better.” When that seems to make her even more uncomfortable, I add, “I do this with all my prisoners. Helps me to understand who I’m dealing with.”
She looks away from me, toward the ceiling. “Fine.”
“Are you hungry? You didn’t eat much dinner.”
“No. Just tired.”
“Thirsty?”
“No.” She sounds annoyed again.
I lean back, put the footrest up. “More reason for me to stay in here. In case you need help again or get hungry later.” I open the cover on my e-reader and start to read.
She sighs. “Suit yourself.” She closes her eyes, but she’s restless. She’s feeling it too, this magnetic attraction the creator built into all mates. She doesn’t understand it, and fighting it is keeping her awake. I send a curl of dragon energy her way, wrapping it around her mind and encouraging her to relax, to let go.
Minutes pass, and her breath evens out. I feel her slip into sleep.
Up until now, I’ve only read the thoughts she’s projected into my head, made louder by the bond between us. But I need to make sure our connection isn’t making me blind to a trick by the Saint’s Order. She wasn’t forthcoming on our walk today, and I need to be damned sure she’s telling the truth about her knowledge and involvement with Roman and the Order.
Dreamwalking isn’t something dragons do casually. Jumping inside someone’s head is risky. You never know what you might find in a place where there are no physical restraints or social mores. I don’t relish stumbling upon my mate dreaming about Roman, for example, but I’m aware it’s possible. One could also argue that it’s a violation. No doubt there are ethical lines I’m crossing. But I dismiss any qualms immediately. I’m warranted because she’s technically the enemy since she was marrying into the Order.
Plus she’s our mate, my dragon adds . Must learn what brings her pleasure. Must prime her mind to our affections. He coils and chuffs inside me, causing my wings to twitch and the tips of my talons to sprout from my second knuckle. Sweat breaks out on my brow again, and my stomach pitches. Mating sickness. It’s getting worse with her nearness. I close my eyes and will myself under control.
The truth is, I could accomplish everything I need to without dreamwalking, but it would take too long. I’m a man of action. This is the fastest road to where we’re going— everywhere we’re going—and I’m taking it. To her it will all feel like a dream anyway. I’ve got nothing to lose and no one to stop me.
I dive into her head.
Blackness, that’s always the way it begins, then everything goes hazy like I’m walking through a cloud. Once the clouds part, I find myself in a swanky cocktail lounge, the mirrored wall behind the bar reflecting shiny bottles of top-shelf liquor. Interesting. This is not what I expected to find in Fiona’s dreams.
A slim woman in a strappy red dress sits at the bar, her back to me. This figure is at the center of the dream. That’s how I know it’s her. Fiona’s hair in real life is a dark auburn, a deep brown that holds a hint of red when it catches the light. In her dreams, her hair is the color of honey. Almost blond. Dream Fiona is also taller than in real life, slimmer, the muscles of her back and shoulders toned as though she’s been practicing ballet since childhood.
It’s not surprising that Dream Fiona doesn’t look like Fiona in real life. Most humans hold a version of themselves in their dreams that doesn’t match reality. In dreams, their self-image is constructed, carefully curated, and sometimes pieced together from celebrity parts they especially admire. It’s normal. Only, it’s hard for me to swallow because in Fiona’s case, reality is so much better than this. I glance down at myself, in my jeans and flannel, and decide I don’t fit the surroundings. I mentally construct a new outfit. A dark tuxedo jacket over a black shirt and slacks. Formal but on the casual side. Something James Bond would wear to the casino. That’s what this scene reminds me of, something out of James Bond.
I swagger up to the bar just as the bartender slides a lemon-drop martini in front of her, stating her drink order as if he could possibly have confused her with someone else. She’s the only one in here. I take a seat on the stool beside her, but when I get a better view of her profile, I almost cringe. The woman in the red dress is undeniably beautiful, but her face is not Fiona’s.
This is highly unusual. People don’t normally center someone else in their dreams. I glance around the bar again, perplexed .
What exactly is going on here?
All the features of Red Dress’s face are hard, cold, angular. Her green eyes are positively icy as she brings her martini to her lips. I catch her looking at me without turning her head.
“Buy you a drink?” She pivots on her stool, turning the full force of a straight white smile in my direction. Stunning. Of course she is. She isn’t real.
“Isn’t that my line?” I say, playing along. “When a man approaches a beautiful woman at a bar, he’s usually the one to offer.”
“But I already have a drink,” she says, soft as a kitten’s breath. “How will it look if you aren’t also drinking?” Her jaw clenches, and she straightens on her stool. “Order. A. Drink.”
I raise a finger and order a scotch, neat. The bartender pours it with a flourish.
Only when he’s gone does she speak again. “Have you brought the package?”
“The package?”
She rubs her temple with two perfectly manicured fingers. “Jesus, Henrik, I don’t have time for these games. Did you get it or not?”
Henrik. It takes me a minute to connect the dots. Henrik Angel. He’s a character in the Alex Rogue series, a potential love interest. Which means I’m talking to… “You’re Alex Rogue, the private investigator who cracks cult murders.” Fuuuuck . This is Fiona’s character. I’m in one of her fucking stories.
“Shhh.” She looks over her shoulder. “What the hell are you doing? Do you want to blow our cover? Now do you have the photos from the Milk Cult initiation or not?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t.”
She turns away and takes a sip of her martini. “This is never going to work. Whoever this pretty face is, it isn’t Henrik. This guy’s dumb as a box of rocks. Don’t expect me to hop into bed with him if he doesn’t have a clue about investigating.”
“Who are you talking to?” I look over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. We’re the only ones in this joint.
“Give me time. I’ll try something else,” a small, familiar voice says from somewhere on the other side of Alex. Somewhere near the floor.
“We’re out of time,” Alex snaps. “We’ve been out of time for six months now. You need to get me out of this fucking bar so that I can do what I do best or you can kiss everything you’ve ever loved goodbye.”
“I’m trying!” the small voice cries. So slight. So weak.
I stand from my stool and try to move around Alex, but her hand shoots out and lands in the center of my chest, her red nails splayed like claws. She leans over to whisper in my ear through pillowy red lips. “Trust me, fella, you don’t want to bother with her. Stay here and have a drink with me. I’m much more exciting.” One icy-green eye winks.
Brushing her hand away, I round her stool and see Fiona on the floor, crammed in a nook of the bar near Alex’s left stiletto. All the air leaves my lungs like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Fiona is beat up. No, she looks like she’s been in an accident. The skin under her amber eyes is black and blue, her lip is split, and her pink T-shirt is soaked in blood from her right collarbone to her left hip, exactly where I saw her scar before. Minor cuts pepper her exposed skin, but it’s the sight of her fingers that will live in my nightmares. Most of her nails are gone, and bone pokes through the tips. Blood pools in her palms as she holds them out to me.
“I can’t free her. I’ve tried everything.” Fiona’s wild eyes lock on mine, tears streaming from their corners.
A heavy chain is manacled to Alex’s slender ankle, binding the character to the bar. It looks like Fiona has been trying to pry the metal cuff off with her bare fingers at the expense of her nails and skin! Fuck, she’s been killing herself to free Alex Rogue. Is this what writer’s block looks like?
Creator help me, I’ve never seen anyone like this inside their head. Dreams reveal a person’s self-concept. Usually people are more attractive in their dreams than they are in reality. Fiona is a wreck. Her hair and eyes are dull. Her skin pale. Her cheeks gaunt. She’s wasting away. Beat up. Destroyed.
“I don’t know what to do,” she weeps, more to herself than to me. “It won’t budge.”
Fortunately, I can help. A dragon’s most formidable weapons are psychic in nature. We can break minds in the same way we inspire them. If I can get inside someone’s head, I can manipulate their dreams, lay chains or break them. This is something I can fix.
I squat down in front of her and place my hands on her shoulders because it seems like the only place that won’t hurt. “It’s going to be okay, Fiona. I’m good with locks. ”
“You are?” Her eyes brighten.
“Yeah.” I turn my hand over and manifest a key, then rub my thumb over the manacle on Alex’s ankle. A lock appears in the metal. “There we go.”
She gasps. “That wasn’t there before.”
“It was always there, I’m just helping you see it. But you have to do it, Fiona. I can show you the lock, and give you the key, but you have to turn it. Do you think you can do that?”
Without hesitation, she swipes the key from my palm, leaving a streak of blood on my skin. I watch her fumble with it until it slides into the lock with a click. Using both hands, she turns the key, struggling to maintain her grip as it’s slippery with her blood. The process looks painful, but when that manacle pops off and clatters to the floor, she laughs even as happy tears stream down her cheeks.
Alex hops off her barstool. “Fucking hell, you did it!” She grabs the sides of Fiona’s face and plants a kiss on her nose. “We are going to solve this case and save those girls.”
Fiona nods, and then Alex grabs her purse off the bar and heads for the exit.
My eyes don’t leave Fiona. I scoop her off the floor. She doesn’t even attempt to stop me, just snuggles in against my chest and breathes deep. “You smell so good. Like cucumber and mint and sometimes like the sea.”
“Yeah? You smell good to me too. So good.” I run my nose through her hair. “Like lilacs and new grass. You smell like spring.”
“How are you still here?” Her voice sounds tired, like she could drift off at any moment. “Alex is more fun. You should go with her. The fans would love that, her finally falling for you.”
“I don’t care about Alex. Everything I need is right here in my arms.”
“That can’t be right.” She meets my eyes, and it feels like I’m staring straight into her soul. “Do you know who I am? I’m a writer who can’t write. An orphan. No family and barely a handful of friends.” She glances down at herself, at the blood and scars. “I’m damaged. Ruined. I’ve lost everything.” She sighs deeply. “I’m nothing anymore but a pile of broken parts.”
I adjust her in my arms, the lump in my throat expanding into a fist, and bring my forehead to hers. “You’re wrong about that. You’re everything to me, Fiona. Everything. Everything I prayed for. Everything I’ve waited for.” I press a kiss to her lips and taste blood. Our eyes lock.
She blinks and blinks again.
“You’re everything to me, Fiona,” I repeat. “And you’re mine.”
“Yours,” she whispers dreamily.
The clouds move in, and a heartbeat later I’m back in the chair, thrown out of her head. She must be waking up. I have my answer. Fiona doesn’t belong to the Order. If she did, there would be something in her head about it, some fear of me or desire to hurt me. All I found in her head was a woman who needed me and melted in my arms like she belonged there
Through slitted eyes, I see her turn on her side and stare directly at me, her arms squeezing that giant stuffed dragon to her chest. Great. Now I’m jealous of a stuffed animal. I do my best to pretend to be asleep. After some time, she sighs and rolls over to her other side. It takes a lot to shake a dragon, but my breath trembles when I release it.