Chapter 19 Mona
That night, unsurprisingly, my dreams are filled with visions of two men.
One behind me, his breath hot on my neck.
The other in front, his fingers pinching my nipple while he thrusts into me.
The weight of them, their scents, it's all so real.
I feel heat spike through my core, even in my sleep.
I can't count how many positions, how many ways they take me, when I finally wake in alarm, gasping for breath.
It's still dark out, nowhere near sunrise.
Sweat beads along my hairline, trickling between my breasts. I'm so wet between my legs it's embarrassing, like a leaky faucet. My damp cotton underwear sticks uncomfortably to my skin.
My scent invades every molecule in the bedroom.
It clings to the sheets and permeates the still night air.
I try to breathe around it, but I'm panting, and it's so thick I can taste it.
Perfume, Grayson called it—my floral honey scent, so succulent, rich, and dense, this can't be just arousal.
It's practically sentient, the way this need, this yearning, keens and rattles inside me, aching for that cinnamon and chocolate hazelnut scent.
It doesn't help that, even awake, I can still smell them. The two men responsible for the mess between my legs—they're close by. Somewhere, lurking around the cabin.
A spike of unease hits me as I suck in a deep breath, hoping against all odds and sanity that I'll find that earthy citrus and fresh rain scent.
I blame the late-night delirium for wanting Silas's scent. But it's there, the need for it, and there's no explanation.
I'm dripping, literally dripping between my legs, the slow-spreading gush growing slicker. There's a wet spot on the bed, and I can feel it cooling against my feverish skin as I roll around and try to get comfortable, but it's useless. Like trying to douse a wildfire with a spray bottle.
This is insane. I know it's a wolf thing, it has to be. No human could get this… sticky.
Groaning, I get up, quickly clean myself off, grab a blanket and pillow off the bed, trudge to the little book nook, and curl up on the big armchair.
It takes me longer to fall asleep this time, but when I do, my dreams change.
It becomes darker. And familiar.
There's a woman. She's crying. I've seen her before. In another dream.
She's small, like me, but much skinnier. Too skinny. She hasn't been fed, her cheeks are gaunt. Her brown hair sticks to the sides of her face in strings and clumps. She's drenched with sweat, filthy.
Brown, watery eyes blink up at the man snarling beside her.
She grits her teeth. They don't look sharp, but there's still a wolfishness to her, something predatory.
She wants him. Red splotches across her cheeks, skin chaffed from fighting or fucking, I don't know.
Her clothes are torn off. She's covered in bruises and scratches.
She's panting.
And then she cries out again, slamming her hands into the ground, like she's in agony, before launching at the man. His roar is so big and deep I feel it, even in the dream.
The nightmare.
Because as he wraps one hand around her throat, the other against her chest, holding her snapping teeth back, the point of view pivots. But I know it's him before I even see him. The citrus and rain scent hit me first.
Silas.