Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Blinking quickly, I let my eyes adjust to the gloom of the large room. Vaulted ceilings and corniced archways are evidence of its splendour, and the rows of orderly chairs with ornate legs and cushioned backrests tell me I’m standing on a stage.
There’s a clicking noise, and the stage is flooded with light. Placing my hand over my eyes, I squint at my new view, the blood red of the velvet backrests coming into view along with the dark wood of the floor, the gold legs of the chairs—and him.
He’s in the middle of the first row, wearing a white shirt and black dress trousers. His arms rest over the backs of the chairs on either side of him, and his right leg is balanced by its ankle on the other knee.
My mouth hangs open. Although I’ve heard him, felt him, touched him, I have never seen him in the dream before.
The dream.
This is a dream.
A dream he’s engineered.
For the first time, I feel a sense of place, of ownership over my thoughts.
“Nice choice of attire,” he says.
Glancing down, I smooth his T-shirt over my body, pulling on the hem to ensure it covers me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m here to make sure you’re okay and to help you sleep.” The lull to his voice sends shivers down my spine.
“How very selfless of you.”
“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t also here for my pleasure. Ten years is a long time to be locked away. The night is my only freedom.”
“Then why waste it here with me?” I cast my eyes over the room.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” He says this with such sincerity, no hint of sarcasm.
“If the previous dreams are anything to go by, this is the part where you tear my clothes off.”
He smirks. “But several hours ago, you told me I don’t have your permission. So that won’t be happening this evening.”
An ugly silence fills the small theatre, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach.
“Then what are you here for?” I ask.
A ghost of a smile brushes his lips. “To watch the show.”
Glancing behind me, I falter. “What show?”
His grin elongates as a shiver whips down my spine.
To my left, a woman appears from nowhere, her skin translucent, her eyes glassy, her hair smoothed down in a centre parting with blonde ringlets adorning each side of her face. Her bodice is laced tightly, her full skirt and the cut of her sleeves indicating an outfit from the 1800s.
She smiles at me as she runs her hands over my arm. I see her, but I can’t feel her. Her touch is nothing more than the flow of air around the stage.
To my right, another woman joins us, similarly dressed but with long dark curls and flowers in her hair.
Their movements are fluid. Their appearance is crystalline.
They are dead.
Both of them.
Not mere actresses in this unscheduled play but tethered to this place, wherever it may be.
To be visited by the dead during the night is new even for me.
“Do you see them?” I ask, shooting my gaze back to Valdemar.
“No. I only see you.”
“Then why—” I begin but am cut off as they raise my arms.
I can’t work out what trickery this is, as they make no impact on my limbs, their touch like feathers, yet my arms move at their bidding, rising above my head.
The dark-haired woman lowers herself, smiling at her friend as she bends down in front of me and places her fingers under the hem of my T-shirt.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but her only reply is another soft smile as she pushes the material up over my thighs, revealing my nakedness beneath.
Her partner gathers my hair at my nape as the other continues to work my T-shirt up until it reaches my neck, and then together, they remove it and toss it to the floor.
“That’s better.”
Valdemar’s gruff voice reminds me of his presence. I can’t see him, as my view is now blocked by the dark-haired woman in front of me, but all he can see is me, now naked on the stage.
The blonde woman runs her hands through my hair, pulling my head back and baring my throat like I’m a puppet on invisible strings. Gliding her hand over my chest, she touches my breasts, the barest of tickles igniting my senses.
The dark-haired woman lowers herself again and runs her hands up the inside of my legs, stopping only to lick her lips as she nears my inner thighs.
“What is this?” I plead, trying to stay focussed and not let the growing need between my legs take over.
“You forbade me from touching you, and I will never let another man or woman alive touch you, so this is the best I could come up with.”
“I can’t feel them.”
“No? Then maybe you just need to fantasise. Though I doubt you can imagine their touch as mine.”
“Valdemar—” I begin, but I don’t get to finish as the dark-haired woman’s hand disappears between my legs and the blonde woman continues to touch my breasts. Although the image of them is there, all I can feel is a shadow of their touch, a suggestion of what I could be feeling, and I want to scream.
“This is torture,” I say.
“For you or me?”
“Why would you do this to me?” I almost cry.
“I’m only doing what you asked. I want to indulge you to help you forget, but you told me no touching, so I’m adhering to your wishes.” Valdemar stands, pushes his hands deep into his pockets, and walks towards the stage.
The dark-haired woman’s fingers work me just before her head dips to replace her hand. I grab for her hair, but my hands grapple at thin air.
“Valdemar, please,” I whimper as he climbs the steps to the right of the stage and stalks across the boards, his hands still hidden in his pockets.
“Please what?” he says.
Pleasure kisses me all over but only lightly, too lightly. It’s not enough to satisfy the arousal these women have ignited, and I want more— need more. It’s like the smell of your favourite dessert as the waiter flounces it before your eyes on a shiny silver platter.
“I don’t care what I said. Just touch me. Please,” I beg.
He’s close now, his eyes boring into my naked skin. The women move behind my back as he stands before me.
“Believe me, I wish I could.” His eyes drop to my breasts, then below my waist before rising back to meet my own. “But I can’t.”
“Why not?” I loathe the desperation in my voice, but my need is growing with every second his hands aren’t upon me.
“I need your consent,” he says.
“I give it. Now. I consent. Just touch me,” I plead.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I need you to give consent in the real world, not in this one.”
“You never had my consent before, yet you touched me anyway, so why is this different?” I argue.
“I was relying on your subconscious before, letting you lead the dream, but today you explicitly told me I wasn’t allowed to touch you, so I have to honour that.”
“Like fuck you do. When did you grow a conscience?” I snap.
By the flicker in his eye, I can tell my remark has stung him.
“I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“But I am, so please, just make me feel the way you do every night. Please,” I whimper.
“Not until I have your consent, angel.”
And with his last word, the whole room dissolves, taking Valdemar with it.
Laying my palms flat against the mattress, my breathing comes thick and fast as a yearning growls in the pit of my stomach. Running my hands across my chest and down my arms, I confirm I’m alone and that the ghostly hands of the women have gone. But Valdemar remains—not in person, but his voice, his words, and his stare are all imprinted in my brain so I will never forget them, never sleep another night without his presence.
Five weeks ago, I wanted nothing more than to kill him, to watch his blood spill at what he did to my brother, to me, to my future. But now….
What’s changed in the last few weeks?
Is it because I know his background, where and how he grew up, and what he went through to get to where he is now? Is it because I know my brother asked him to shoot him, a mercy killing to avoid being bricked up alive? Is it the dreams, his invasion of my nights, the knowledge of what his touch is like, what his words sound like, or is it because of yesterday when he protected me like I was the most precious thing he’d ever held?
Or am I just being a complete fool and letting sexual desire rule my head? Have I been coerced by these dreams into thinking he can give me what I want, what I’ve failed to find?
Fighting the urge to relieve the throbbing between my legs, I swing myself out of bed and pad into the bathroom, not knowing the answer to any of these questions but aware I will have to endure this dream for the rest of the week until my next visit with Valdemar and that the dream will change again if the pattern is to continue.
Next week is my last visit before he’s released, and then what? I’ve been na?ve in thinking that our contact will end after his release when really it will only just begin.