4. Beneath the Surface
Beneath the Surface
Dream Nichole
The mansion is silent.
I sit curled on the edge of the grand staircase, my fingers twisting idly around the hem of my dress. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, waiting—existing in this space, alone with my thoughts.
But the thoughts won’t settle.
Antonio Beretti is my father.
The truth unraveled itself in the real world, settling into me like a jagged piece of glass I can’t remove. Even here, in this place where memories flicker in and out of reach, I can still feel the weight of it pressing into my chest.
Everything I knew about my life was a lie.
I close my eyes, inhaling slowly. And if Damian finds out?
The thought sends a sharp ache through me.
I don’t know what he’ll do. I don’t know if he’ll look at me the same way once he realizes who I really am.
A flicker of warmth cuts through the unease. A presence.
I lift my head just as the grand doors swing open.
Damian.
Relief floods through me, washing away everything else. For a moment, none of it matters—just him, here, with me.
I push myself to my feet, moving toward him without hesitation. His expression is sharp, focused, but I don’t care. I just need to feel him.
I reach for his face, my fingers brushing against the rough edge of his jaw. “You’re here.”
His hand comes up, catching mine, pressing it briefly against his skin. But his next words send a chill through me.
“I need your help.”
The warmth between us shifts, and suddenly, I see it—the tension in his stance, the urgency in his eyes.
Something is wrong.
“What happened?” I whisper.
He exhales, his grip tightening slightly. “It’s Valentina.”
My breath catches.
He doesn’t have to say more. I already know.
She’s in danger.
And we don’t have time to waste.
The moment we step into the dream room, the world shifts.
We are no longer in the mansion.
Instead, a desolate warehouse looms before us, its rusted metal doors barely hanging on their hinges. The ground is cracked, littered with debris from years of abandonment. The scent of oil and damp concrete fills the air.
A chill runs down my spine. This place isn’t random. It’s real.
Damian’s stance tightens beside me. His eyes narrow, scanning the area with practiced precision. Then, in a low voice, he mutters, “I know this place.”
I glance at him carefully.
He exhales, his jaw clenching. “The Berettis use this site for… business.” His voice is unreadable, but I feel the anger simmering beneath. “It’s off the grid, no official records. If they brought her here, they don’t plan on letting her go.”
I swallow hard. I already knew that.
But I can’t let him know I knew.
“We need to move,” Damian says.
Even though we can’t be seen, we act as though we could. The dream is real enough that any reckless movement could distort what we see, break the vision before we get what we need.
We slip inside through a broken doorway, stepping into the dim interior. Overhead, a single flickering light casts jagged shadows across the room. There’s a makeshift setup—old wooden crates stacked against the walls, a single chair placed in the center.
A woman sits slumped forward, her arms restrained behind her back. Valentina.
She’s breathing, but barely.
Two men stand nearby, speaking in low voices. I don’t recognize them, and that’s exactly how it should be.
Valentina can’t know who took her.
Damian exhales sharply. His hands flex at his sides, the barely restrained urge to act clear in his stance.
“We need to go,” I whisper, my fingers brushing his wrist.
He doesn’t move. His eyes flick to the two men, calculating. “We don’t have time to wait.”
I steady myself, my heart pounding. He can’t interfere here. Not yet.
“We know where she is,” I remind him. “Now we need to get her out.”
His gaze lingers on Valentina for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he nods.
The dream fades around us, pulling us back into the familiar warmth of the mansion’s grand hall.
Damian stands still, shoulders tense, his eyes dark with calculation. Even here, in the space where time bends and reality twists, his mind is already back in the real world—already planning.
“She’s alive,” he says finally, exhaling slowly. “That’s all that matters right now.”
I nod, though my stomach twists. For now.
Damian turns toward me, and for the first time since we stepped into the dream room, his focus sharpens on me.
“There’s something I need to ask you.”
My breath stills.
He watches me carefully, his expression unreadable. “The Berettis.” A pause. “Did you know of them in the real world?”
I force my body to stay relaxed, to breathe evenly. “Only from what I’ve seen in the dream and nightmare rooms.” My voice is steady, careful. “Other than that, I didn’t know anything about them in the real world.”
A heartbeat of silence. Then—
He nods. Satisfied.
Relief floods through me, but it’s quickly buried under the weight in my chest.
Because now, I have lied.
I glance away, wrapping my arms around myself as I try to quiet my racing thoughts.
The truth would ruin everything.
If Damian knew—if he ever found out—would he still look at me the same way?
“Tomorrow,” Damian says, his voice breaking through my thoughts. “We go after her.”
I blink, refocusing. “Tomorrow?”
His jaw tightens. “She’s alive, but we don’t have time to waste. I need to prepare.” His fingers flex at his sides, like he’s already strategizing. “I need my men in position before we make a move.”
I exhale slowly, nodding. “Then I’ll help however I can.”
Damian steps closer, lifting my chin with gentle but firm fingers. His gaze is steady, unwavering.
He trusts me.
And that’s what makes it worse.
Because he has no idea what I’m hiding.
Damian is already planning.
I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his shoulders remain rigid despite the shift in surroundings. His mind isn’t here anymore. It’s racing ahead, calculating, strategizing.
Even in the dream world, he doesn’t know how to stop.
I step closer, pressing my palm against his chest. “Damian.”
He doesn’t look at me.
I slide my hand upward, tracing the collar of his shirt, feeling the tension beneath. “You’re still there, aren’t you?”
His brow furrows slightly. “There’s no time to waste.”
“There’s nothing you can do right now.” I step in closer, tilting my head up so he has to meet my eyes. “You’ll wake up soon. And when you do, you’ll save Valentina.”
His gaze sharpens, but I don’t let him pull away.
“But right now,” I whisper, fingers brushing against the rough stubble along his jaw, “you’re here—with me.”
His breath is slow, controlled—but his stance shifts just slightly, like he’s considering my words.
I press further, my other hand resting lightly over his. “You always come here with a purpose. But when was the last time you let yourself just… be?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, but the hard edges of his expression are already softening.
I smile slightly, my fingers tracing a slow path over his wrist. “I miss you when you’re gone.”
His grip tightens suddenly, like he’s just realizing how close we are.
“I’m always coming back to you,” he murmurs.
I tilt my head, smiling softly. “Then stay with me a little longer.”
His hesitation lasts only a breath.
Then, finally, he lets himself be here. With me.
The moment Damian stops resisting, the tension in his body eases—not completely, but enough. Enough for me to feel the shift, the way his focus finally settles on me instead of everything waiting for him outside this world.
His hands, once clenched in thought, find their way to my waist.
I exhale slowly, my fingers still resting against the rough stubble along his jaw. “That’s better.”
He doesn’t say anything, just studies me—really studies me. His gaze is sharp, searching, like he’s trying to memorize every detail, every curve of my face, every flicker of emotion in my eyes.
Like he’s afraid I might disappear.
I press a little closer, my heart pounding. “I’m not going anywhere, Damian.”
His grip tightens. “You say that like it’s a promise.”
I tilt my head. “Because it is.”
The words hang between us, charged, waiting.
Then, finally, he moves.
His mouth claims mine, slow at first—controlled, careful. But there’s something deeper beneath it, something restrained. Something hungry.
I melt into him, my hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, anchoring myself against him. The dream pulls us deeper, responding to us, surrounding us in warmth. The mansion feels smaller, quieter.
Like nothing exists except this moment.
His fingers trail up my spine, sending a shiver through me. I never feel cold here—not with him.
When he pulls back just enough to look at me again, his gaze is darker, heavier.
“Stay with me,” I whisper, this time not just a request, but a plea.
He answers the only way he can—by kissing me again.
The air between us shifts, thick with something unspoken.
Damian’s hands move slowly, like he’s memorizing me—every curve, every inch. His fingers trail along my spine, deliberate, reverent. The weight of the real world lingers on his shoulders, but here, in this place, I can strip it away.
I slide my hands up his chest, over the firm muscle beneath his shirt. The tension in his body is a constant, but right now, it’s different. Not from worry. Not from the weight of everything pressing down on him.
This is need.
A need that mirrors my own.
I tilt my head, letting my lips ghost along his jaw. His breath hitches, just slightly, but enough for me to notice.
“Stay with me,” I whispered, my voice soft and pleading.
I didn't want this moment to end; I wanted to hold onto him, to keep him close. I craved the feeling of his touch, the way he made me feel alive.
Damian's grip tightened on my waist, his fingers gently caressing my skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His response was unspoken, but I felt it in every inch of my being. He understood the depth of my words, the longing in my heart.