Chapter 4 Reverie
REVERIE
I’m in hell.
Whatever I did in my past life, it must’ve been fucking atrocious to deserve this one.
Because being trapped in Dread’s arms is one hundred percent hell, even if his amber and sandalwood scent is a little intoxicating.
He’s like a sauna radiating enough heat to rival the ass end of a space rocket, and while it’s better than the bone-chilling cold from last night, it’s not very welcoming, either.
Mainly because, of all people, it’s Dreadful fucking Sharpe molded into my back, sleeping soundly with his hard dick firmly tucked in the crevice of my ass and his hand clutching my boob like it’s his childhood teddy bear.
Jesus, is this how all his one-night stands wake up? This is some hardcore snuggling, so I can see why it'd make them feel special.
I, however, feel the complete opposite.
I hate it here. Oh my God, I hate it here so much.
His phone lies on the corner of the nightstand, so I carefully flip it up and tap the screen. The time reads a few minutes before six o’clock in the morning. It's still pitch-black outside, just as dark as it was when my eyes fell shut.
I’ve no idea how early he needs to be up today, but I’m not sticking around to find out.
Carefully, I set his phone down, face up, offering me a dim glow, then grab his wrist and gently remove it from my breast. I attempt to slyly maneuver out from his hold, moving my legs toward the edge of the bed before slowly sliding out the rest of my body.
I’m halfway to success when he groans, his arm snapping around me like a steel band and dragging me back against his chest. Instantly, his hand returns straight to my boob, squeezing it for extra measure.
Jesus fucking Christ.
With tightened lips, I close my eyes and exhale through my nose, working to gather the patience and serenity to get myself out of this situation without waking the beast.
If I can get out of this bed and dress as quickly and quietly as possible, then maybe I can escape Dread’s presence unscathed.
Truly, that’s all I want for my birthday this year.
Well—that, and for Lionel to never be released from prison, but I digress.
He came so close to breaking me this time.
Too close. After last night and the initial turmoil, thinking my father had killed someone, to believing I was being framed for his crime and actually getting arrested, to being left out in a goddamn blizzard then ending up in Dread’s bed—all I want to do is crawl into my own bed and sob for about thirty solid minutes.
After that, I want to take the hottest shower known to man and scrub off the dates he stained onto my skin, as if they weren't already carved into my brain.
I’ve never experienced a whiplash of emotional and physical torture within such a short span.
There was no time for relief when I realized it was only Dread playing another cruel prank on me, no time to calm myself before being thrust into a deep cold that sunk its way into my bones and wrapped around me with a strength that was quite literally breathtaking.
There sure as fuck was no time to prepare for him stripping me naked and bringing me back from the brink of death.
And it hurt. The feeling slowly creeping back into my extremities set my entire body on fire. Every single movement was agony. Every twitch, every brush of skin, set my nerves ablaze.
To be so numb yet drowning in agony is a torment I never want to experience again. And, of course, the cause of that torment is wrapped around me like a fucking python.
God, I hate him.
I hate him so fucking much, it brings tears to my eyes, even now.
I hold on to that loathing as I carefully grab his wrist and, once again, lift it away from my tit to slide out from beneath it.
This time, I’m successful, and I sigh a soft breath of relief—only to choke on it when he shifts behind me. I freeze, every one of my muscles locked tight as adrenaline floods my system.
Heart pounding, I wait for him to say something, but as seconds tick by in silence, I risk glancing over my shoulder.
He’s still sleeping, but he’s lying on his back now, his head turned away from me.
My eyes roll from the utter relief.
Thank. Fucking. God.
The light from his phone shuts off, so I tap it again to relight it and then carefully swing my legs off the edge of the bed. I spare another glance over my shoulder, only for my heart to wither as I take in his sleeping form.
I feel like a photographer out in the wild, recording a rare sight of the most dangerous animal in the world—hidden in the shadows, terrified of the sleeping beast catching sight of me, yet locked in place, too riveted to do the smart thing and run for my life.
Like most swimmers, his body is egregiously long, with hands that could cover the entirety of my face, feet that likely need custom shoes, and muscles that have no business even existing. His shoulders are broad, biceps incredibly large and toned, his sculpted waist tapered.
Dozens of black, fine-line tattoos cover the expanse of his exposed skin.
All of them are smaller yet expertly placed, creating a single art piece altogether.
Two hands reach for one another, their fingers scarcely touching, stretching across his chest. A compass on his left bicep has the word ‘saudade’ scribed vertically next to it.
Several small stone sculptures of Greek gods are scattered across his arms, some of them depicting only half of their faces while the other half are different celestial designs.
I can also make out a few geometric shapes and an outline of a meditating figure with Saturn for a head, along with various lines, dots, and swirls that somehow make it all come together cohesively.
He has one tattoo beside his hipbone—a simple outline of what appears to be a heart-shaped flower.
Except, his physique isn’t the most dangerous part of him.
No, it’s his smile—his real smile. His eyes heavily crinkle at the corners, creating deep divots that curve downward and deep dimples on his upper cheekbones.
It transforms a stone-cold face into a sight capable of withering lungs.
Those smiles are incredibly rare, and I’ve only glimpsed them a few times from afar.
As much as I can’t stand the sight of him, I also understand why everyone falls at his feet.
Forcing myself out of that dangerous thought process, I face forward and quietly creep to the pile of clothes on his floor, keeping my movements slow and careful as I dress, the material still damp and freezing cold from last night.
It’s god-awful. Sliding on each piece feels like wrapping myself in death, but it’s a small price to pay to cover the black ink staining my skin and get the fuck out of here.
Several times, I have to relight his phone so I can see until I’m completely clothed and violently shivering once more.
The second I’m finished, I glance at him, and though it's still too dark to make out a defined feature, his soft breathing lets me know he's still peacefully asleep.
He doesn’t deserve to feel peace.
And because he has every intention of wrecking what little I have, I gun straight for his phone. My heart pounds as I quickly tap the screen, praying to Jesus he has facial recognition to unlock it. I’m instantly disappointed. Instead, his password requires a fucking pattern.
The goddamn psychopath.
I had a chance if it was his thumbprint, face, maybe even a code, but a pattern?
I desperately attempt a few anyway, any shred of hope quickly sizzling away. After one last try, I get the notification that, due to too many failed attempts, his phone is locked for two minutes.
Fuck me so fucking hard.
Frustrated tears gather along the ridge of my bottom lashes, but there’s clearly nothing I can do about that video and picture right now. I’m not giving up on somehow deleting them, but I need to get the hell out of here.
Setting his phone on the nightstand again, I go to open the door, but a small voice in the back of my head screams at me to stop.
After what he did to you last night, you’re just going to leave?
Sunlight is just beginning to creep into the darkness, casting a deep blue glow over the room. I glance around his room, my brain spinning, though it’s like standing outside a locked door, listening to the muffled voices on the other side but unable to make sense of them.
As seniors, we’re given single dorms, which are fairly large, though unlike the rest of our class, he has a full-sized bed. It's unsurprising he'd get that privilege—not that a twin bed could even handle his behemoth body, anyway.
My stare snags on his display cases full of gold medals and trophies. Some of them are so large, he had to rearrange the shelving to make room. If I could, I’d break every fucking one of them, but something tells me Dread doesn’t put a whole lot of value in his medals.
During the Olympics, I caught glimpses of him on TV after beating yet another record or securing a medal.
He never smiled, never cheered for himself, had no reaction other than boredom—something journalists and sportscasters had an absolute field day with.
Even standing on the podium in his USA outfit and wearing several gold fucking medals around his neck, the best he could offer was mild interest.
A soft snore snaps me out of my completely pointless thoughts, and I go back to searching his room.
I quickly scan over the mini fridge and microwave toward the back left of the room, an organized desk in the corner, and over to a door leading to his half bathroom on the right, a few feet in front of the foot of his bed and perpendicular to a large closet full of neatly arranged clothes.
Unlike most men, he keeps his space tidy, which makes it easy to tiptoe to a large whiteboard calendar nailed to the wall by his desk. I squint as I read over the words, the room just light enough to make them out if I concentrate.
It’s fucking full.