Demonically Yours (Monster Brides Romance)

Chapter 1

INTERNAL PROTOCOL – DREAMSCAPE OPS // CLASSIFIED SUBJECT: Lucid Instability Containment Procedure

Lucid Dreamer flagged for Tier IV+ Nightmare Entity intersection.

· Dispatch high-ranking field agent under veil protocols

PHASE ONE

Status: Oneiric Contamination Detected in Civilian Zone

· Sudden increase in REM instability

· Environmental anomalies reported (light flicker, shared dreams, sensory bleed)

PHASE TWO

Status: Veil Compromised

· Contamination radius exceeds anchor

· Civilians report Dreamscape intrusion while conscious

· Nightmare agents authorized for neutralization and suppression

PHASE THREE

Status: Existential Breach

· Reality distortion observed across linked corridors

· Command systems destabilized/neutralized

· Dreamscape enters lockdown sequence

· All agents ordered to restrict field ops to active targets only

~*~

Dreamverse. Nightmares Division HQ.

December.

Hunter reformed in front of the Nightmares Division HQ door and didn’t even think of stopping. He pushed it open and strutted in, whistling. “Yo, boss,” he said. “What’s up?”

Clad in his usual full-black suit, sitting behind his onyx desk, Dorian, Chief of the Nightmares Division, barely raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, Hunter, it’s been millennia. Knock at the bloody door before you walk in.”

Hunter shrugged and slumped on the chair on the other side. “We’ve only got the office and the whole bag for about what? A few centuries?” He shrugged again. “I like to keep it wild. How’s the missus?”

Asking him about his fated mate, Amelia, was the easiest and only way to get Dorian’s attention diverted.

It wouldn’t save him from heavier crap, but it surely would for his lack of manners–and it worked like a charm.

Dorian leaned back and rested his elbows on the chair armrest. “We’re about to settle in Mystic Hollow for Christmas. ”

“Try not to get yourself in trouble this year. I don’t particularly care for being in your shoes ever again.”

“Not that I plan on. Besides, Amelia reviewed some of the protective spells with Lachlan.” Dorian’s smile managed to be proud and cruel at the same time. “He did not enjoy it.”

Hunter chuckled. Knowing Lachlan–Sorcerer Magnus, Mayor of Mystic Hollow, and a Scot made of temper and pride in equal parts–having his brilliancy questioned by a human lawyer was the closest thing to torture.

Which in turn, was sure to bring Dorian nothing but pure joy.

Hunter suspected Dorian and Lachlan just loved to hate on each other, but he was smart enough not to say that out loud.

Dorian was silent for a second, tuning into something only he could hear. Then he said, “Amelia says to come by the cottage this weekend.”

Ah, yes. He was talking to Amelia through the bond.

Two bodies, one soul. Dorian, his boss, his big brother for all purposes and intents, the only other Tulpa demon in existence, had found it.

His fated mate. The soul-deep bond they never even knew they could have.

Dorian was still the same cold-blooded terror that could drive an entire country to madness through nightmares with nothing but half a thought, but now he smiled more.

Moved like the weight on his chest wasn’t so damn heavy anymore.

Sharing his heart and soul with someone else hadn’t made him weaker; it had made him whole.

And Hunter had discovered he wanted that.

He hated how much he wanted that. To be seen.

Known. Bound to someone by more than fun or sex.

To get lost inside another soul and never claw his way out.

He didn’t move when the feeling crept in, unwelcome and familiar.

Envy. Not ugly, but envy, nonetheless. He swallowed it all and asked, “She making pot roast?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I’ll be there.” To move away from the uncomfortable emotion, he leaned forward and steered the convo back to work. “So, what’s up? I don’t think you called me here to invite me to a Sunday roast.”

Dorian took a file from a drawer, set it on the desk, and pushed it toward him. “We have a lucid dreamer.”

“Uh. Okay.” Lucid dreamers were anomalies in the Dreamscape and tricky to deal with.

Most sleepers were passive; they experienced dreams–period.

Lucid dreamers were aware. They could think, choose, and interfere with the delivery of nightmares.

See through the illusion, thus nullifying the therapeutic side of it.

Definitely a dent into the controlled balance that Dream Devils like himself enforced. “She human?”

“Indeed.”

Hunter took the file, opened it, and read the info.

... cognitive scans suggest strong emotional resonance originating from childhood trauma and long-term repression. Current threat level is contained. Recommend immediate field evaluation by high-tier operative....

“Childhood trauma,” Hunter muttered, skimming the rest of the file. “Always fun.”

Most Dream Devils weren’t cut to handle those.

Not because they weren’t powerful enough, but because it meant walking into a dream built by a child who never got to feel safe.

And no matter how grown-up the dreamers were in real life, inside the dream, they were still eight years old, hiding in a closet, waiting for the rescue, the comfort, or the way out that never came.

It took finesse. Patience. A brutal kindness most demons weren’t wired for.

And the ones who were wired for it never liked it, but they did it anyway. Because if done right, they could give that kid the ending they never got. Even if it tore something out of them in the process, no matter how often they did it. “You want me to take a look,” Hunter said, closing the file.

“Well, it calls for a high-tier operative. You’re the highest.”

“I mean.” Hunter leaned back again. “Technically, you’re a step above.”

Dorian leaned on his side and sighed. “Do you want to switch chairs?”

Only he could say something so casual and still radiate pure menace. And of course, Hunter laughed, because he was the only one who could get away with it. Except for Amelia, obviously. “Nah. I’ll take a look and let you know.”

~*~

Hunter snuck into her subconscious without trouble.

Daphne Claire Quinn.

Thirty-two now; barely seven in the nightmare.

He’d read her file, knew what he would find and like clockwork, he felt it as soon as he was in.

Tight but not claustrophobic, her mind was more like a sealed vault holding every emotion neatly filed away and strictly supervised.

Her subconscious had been clean to the point of unease, and that only underscored the fragility of it, the feeling that if you pulled the wrong thread, the whole thing would unravel.

He couldn’t know what the thread was. Finding it might be the point, what she needed to deal with.

Pushing and jerking the dream wouldn’t accomplish anything, especially for lucid dreamers. So he softened, let her mind take him in, surrendered to it until he wasn’t just standing in her mind, he was part of it.

The shift was, like usual, subtle at first. As Daphne’s sleep deepened and her brain activated, her emotions stirred, the vault flexed, and the light changed.

And the dream became.

She was in her childhood house. In her bed. And while nothing in the room looked threatening, the unease was immediate, thick as fog, and familiar.

It was too quietly tense, the control brittle, like she was bracing for something she knew was coming. It was always like this, with trauma. The dream wouldn’t explode into a nightmare. It would unfold unhurried, like it had all the time in the world to torture you.

Hunter steadied, waiting to see which version of hell he would have to be.

The room looked normal at first, but some walls were missing entirely, eaten out by darkness because they were useless to the dream.

The window didn’t show a world outside; it didn’t show the night.

Only a wrong blackness. From underneath the door, the lighting flickered like an old film reel, never settling, never right.

Somewhere deeper in the house, a faucet dripped.

Muted voices dipped–one in warning, one in fear.

Glass clinked. Ice shifted in a tumbler that didn’t exist. And it came. Like it always did. A woman’s soft scream, so faint it might’ve been imagined.

Daphne cried, silent and red-eyed in the deceptive safety of her too-thin blanket, and Hunter stayed. Anchored himself deeper in the dream. He didn’t flinch at the scream and didn’t look away from the soundless tears.

He was nightmare. Made to guide, to reinforce. To push the dreamer until they woke up gasping or cracked open enough to let something new in.

He was her mind, her emotions. Felt her terror as his. The blinding rage.

The words she mouthed, over and over, didn’t make sounds, but they thundered all the same. Hatred recited like scripture, her lips chanted curses with the steadiness of prayer.

Small. She felt so small. Insignificant.

But Hunter didn’t stop, no matter how overwhelming it was, because he felt something else in her. Courage. And he would use every shade of fear, every nuance of pressure, and every shadow of danger to help the woman who still carried the girl inside of her.

From the other side of the door, Hunter conjured the voice gently.

Carefully. Her mother’s voice, her intonation.

Every syllable heavy with what wanted to be a promise of safety but delivered surrender.

He pushed it through the door, soft but weary.

“Daphne, baby, just stay in bed.” He summoned that careful myrmur meant to soothe not Daphne, but her father.

“It’s better if we don’t make it worse. If we stay quiet, he’ll calm down. He always does.”

She hated that line, and Hunter knew it.