Embrace the Night

Page 215



"Tell me."

She tried to look away, but she couldn't draw her gaze from his. "Tell me." It was a command.

"Mostly I dream about you," she said. "About…" She shrugged. "About the other night." "Is that all?"

"No. Sometimes I have nightmares, horrible nightmares."

He didn't move, but she had the feeling he was leaning toward her. "Tell me," he said again.

"They don't make any sense. The girl in the dreams is me. I see what she sees, I hear what she hears. But she's not me."

She stared up at him, hoping he could help, hoping he would assure her that she wasn't going crazy. "Sometimes I speak French." She lifted one hand and let it fall in a gesture of helplessness. "I don't know how to speak French. But in my dreams I know the words, what they mean. And there's"—she swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry—"there's blood and death and you, all mixed up together. And last night"—her fingernails dug into her palms—"last night I dreamed that I had been buried alive. And you came to save me."

"Sarah." His voice was a harsh rasp, filled with agony. And he knew, knew without doubt, that it was Sara Jayne sitting before him.

"What does it all mean?" she asked.

He turned away, not wanting her to see the yearning, the hunger, that he knew must surely be plain on his face. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Am I going mad?" she asked anxiously. "Is that what it means?"
"No."

"Why did you bring me here? What do you want from me?"
"I was going to offer you a choice."

"What kind of choice?"

"I was going to ask if you would be mine willingly, and if you said no, I was going to offer you the choice of being my slave or my equal."

She couldn't help it—she laughed. His slave or his equal? Who did he think he was? And then she felt the power of his gaze, and the laughter died in her throat.

"You're not kidding, are you?"

"No."