Chapter 10 #2
My heartbeat spikes hard enough to rattle me, and I take two careful steps back, slipping behind the curtain enough to watch without being seen.
Whatever Tessa is—lucid dreamer or the strongest fucking dream projection I’ve ever encountered—she cannot see me.
I have no idea what happens if Blondie’s subconscious clocks me as an intruder while the dream still feels sealed shut like this.
“Hey, girl.” Tessa finally acknowledges her directly, but Blondie doesn’t even look up. She keeps kneading, hips swaying as she sings along with the muffins. “That looks like a way better dream than you’ve had lately.”
Okay. So Tessa is lucid. And, apparently, nightmares are Blondie’s default setting, not this sugary, lemon-scented hellscape. Good to know.
“Lennon,” Tessa tries again, voice gentler now. “Can you hear me?”
“Lennon,” I whisper under my breath, testing it. Yeah. That fits.
Way better than Cherub, anyway.
“Of course, I can hear you, dummy. You’re standing right next to me.” Lennon laughs, and the sound punches straight through my sternum.
I scowl reflexively because, obviously, my body is an idiot, and we’re not unpacking that reaction right now.
“Your dream looks way more vivid and stable than usual.” Tessa studies the space. “Did you read my journal?”
Journal?
Lennon’s shoulders lift in a vague, noncommittal shrug.
“Lenny,” Tessa presses. “Try to remember. Did you go to sleep with the intention to remember? You have to tell yourself you want to be lucid in your dream before you go to sleep.”
Shit. She’s nudging her toward lucidity.
Lennon hums again, non-answer personified, and Tessa tips her head back, glancing up at the ceiling.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “I’ve never seen muffins float before. That’s new. Don’t you think that’s weird? Wouldn’t it be so funny if you were dreaming right now?”
I huff a laugh before I can stop myself. Nice try.
Subtlety points for effort, but that’s not going to work. However, I have no idea what would work either. Blondie is too deep in the vibe. If you poke her too hard, she’ll wake up clean. No gradual awareness, just snap and gone, which would kick me out too. Which… come to think of it.
Yes, please.
Tessa steps closer and reaches out, placing a hand on Blondie’s arm. “Do you think this could be a dream?”
The dough stills under Lennon’s palms, and the muffins hold a note too long, voices wobbling.
Is she waking up?
Tessa lets go of her arm, and Lennon goes back to kneading.
“Shit. Lenny, please. I need you conscious,” Tessa murmurs.
A prick of worry settles in my stomach, but before I can shove the feeling down where it belongs, the air shifts with a pressure change, like the room inhaled and didn’t quite exhale.
I scan the kitchen fast, pulse jumping, but there’s no one there.
Just awareness, like being watched by something without eyes.
Fantastic.
Add that to the list of deeply concerning developments tonight.
Tessa’s smile falters a fraction, as if she feels it, too, and my gut sinks.
“Girl,” she says carefully. “Since when can muffins sing?”
I watch Blondie blink at the dough like the question has to travel a long way to reach her. Can’t Tessa see that this approach obviously won’t work with her?
Fuck it.
“You’re being too subtle.” I step out from behind the curtain, letting it fall back into place behind me.
Tessa spins, and her eyes go wide, color draining from her face so fast it’s almost impressive. “Ridge? Ridge Wells?”
“In the flesh,” I say dryly, lifting a hand in a half wave. “Which is… not technically accurate, because this is a dream, and I don’t actually have flesh here, but you get the gist.”
She stares at me like she’s seeing a ghost, which is fair. It’s not like I felt any different encountering her here.
“What are you doing in Lenny’s dre—”
She never finishes the sentence because the air behind her folds.
That’s the only way I can describe it, like the space itself gives up and lets someone step through. A tall man appears at her back, arms sliding around her waist with an intimacy that’s not to miss. His chin settles on her shoulder before he smiles at me, making every hair on my body stand on end.
I know him.
Not because I’ve met him before.
Because I’ve read about him.
A hundred scattered posts online. Dead threads, anonymous comments, people describing the same man over and over again.
Dark hair.
Green eyes.
The man in the dreams.
This Man.
Tessa shudders in his arms as he presses a slow kiss to the side of her neck, the bastard never breaking eye contact with me. Then he winks, and they disappear the way he came.
“Holy fucking shit.” I whip around, heart hammering, scanning the kitchen as if it might fall apart any second.
But Blondie is still humming, kneading, smiling, as if she didn’t notice that someone dark just entered her REM cycle and kidnapped her friend. I stare at her, my chest heaving and adrenaline screaming through my veins.
Is she okay?
I step up beside her, close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off her skin, and the first stupid, intrusive thought that crosses my mind is, God, she’s short.
“Lennon,” I say, testing her name out loud this time.
When she doesn’t react, I reach out and brush the streak of flour off her cheek with my thumb.
The contact sends a strange, grounding jolt through me, and settles all the panicked feelings I just had.
She feels more real than anything else I’ve ever felt in dreams before, and before I can overthink it, I tuck the loose strand of hair that’s fallen out of her bun back behind her ear.
She finally turns, and fuck. Her eyes are blue, not blotchy or rimmed red and not drowning in grief or panic. Just… blue.
“Who are you?” She scrunches up her nose at me, suspicious and adorable in equal measure.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can shut it down. “I’m Ridge.”
Her frown joins the scrunched-up nose as she glances up at the ceiling, at the muffins still hovering mid-song, then back at me.
Finally, a flicker of awareness.
“What—”
“Question it,” I cut in.
I reach for her hand and lace my fingers through her dough-covered ones before she can pull away, and the second I do, the dream locks around me. The world anchors like I just plugged myself into something solid. Too solid?
My breath stutters, and I glance down at my free hand, needing to check. Six fingers.
Still dreaming.
I look back up at her and squeeze her hand when she glances at the floating muffins again. “Question it, Lennon.”
I can practically see the moment lucidity flickers into place as her gaze snaps back to me, eyes going wide.
“I’m dreaming.” The moment the words leave her mouth, the dream shudders violently.
“Ah, shit,” I curse, then lean in even closer. “Breathe. It’s okay. Yes, you’re dreaming… just breathe.”
Something slams into the side of my head.
“Ow! What the—”
Another muffin nails my shoulder. Then another clips my ribs, and another, and another, the music cutting off mid-note as the choir dives straight at me, and I let go of her hand and stumble a few steps back.
“Are you kidding me?” I bark out, throwing my arms up to shield my head as the damn things hurt, frosting and crumbs exploding everywhere.
Lennon is staring at me in pure shock, hands half-raised like she doesn’t know whether to help or apologize.
“Sweetheart,” I growl out, ducking as another muffin clocks me in the ear. “I’d appreciate it if you get your shit together and stop throwing things at me!”
She gasps, then vanishes, gone so fast there’s not even time to register the empty space where she stood. The muffins lose all momentum at once, dropping straight down like someone cut the strings, coming crashing onto me, but before they can make contact, the world crashes first—
I wake up fighting for breath.
My lungs burn, heart slamming hard enough that I’m convinced something inside my chest finally gave out. I suck in air, over and over, staring up at my ceiling while the echo of her blue eyes and that scrunched-up nose refuses to let go.
The air still smells like lemon blueberry muffins, and my hands are trembling just enough to piss me off as I reach out and press my fingers into the side of my nightstand, willing them to go through the wood, but it’s solid beneath my palm.
Reality.
“Fuck,” I rasp into the dark.
Soft, muffled sounds cut through the ringing in my ears.
I go still, breath caught halfway in my lungs, listening to a soft thud from next door. My gaze snaps to my phone on my nightstand, and I reach over to check the time.
7:32 a.m. Since when the fuck do I sleep past six?
I drag a hand down my face, scrubbing hard like I can wipe the night off my skin, when there’s a knock at my door.
“Ridge!”