“Because I want you to,” he explains. “Another perk of being me: dreamwalking.”
I shoot him a dark look. I’m not in the mood to learn what other fae tricks he has up his sleeve. This is pretty close to the last thing I need right now.
“Would you like me to leave?” His question throws me off. He’s giving me a choice.
“I want you to tell me what you’re doing in my dream. Don’t tell me you want to spend more time with me,” I remark. “I’m already stuck with you one day of the week. Isn’t that enough?”
He offers a charming smile, and it occurs to me that dream Tristan is just as dangerously attractive as reality Tristan. “You’re fiery tonight,” he says.
“And you’re annoying. Can I have my dream back now?”
“You don’t like me, do you?” What a loaded question.
I gape at him. “Is that . . . Seriously? Do you want to be my best friend or something, Tristan? Because I’m pretty sure medical professionals have a name for that. It’s called Stockholm Syndrome.”
He huffs out a frustrated sigh. “You left town,” he says. “Or did you run away?” He knows I left. Was he looking for me?
“I went looking for answers about my ancestors. Instead, I found out that my brother is sick.” I sigh. “You can’t scare me away. I’ll be there on Monday. I know what’s at stake here, so not even the idea of you being there could stop me from showing up.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your brother,” he says, and the sudden softness in his expression makes my chest ache.
“Thanks,” I say after a stretch of silence. I stare at him for what feels like far too long. I’m still trying to decide whether this is real. “So, you did this to creep me out?”
“I was hoping to learn something,” he admits.
“Learn what? How I’d react to you being invasive as hell?” I counter, resting my hands on my hips.
He offers a bemused smile. “I’m trying to figure you out. Humans are supposed to be simple creatures. They have impulses and fears. Considering what I am and my position in both the human and fae worlds, humans are intimidated by me. And then there’s you. The elusive human with fae lineage. You’re . . . everything I can’t control.”
My breath hitches as it becomes harder to hold his gaze. “Control is overrated,” I say in a shaky voice. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.”
“An interesting concept. One I’d guess was created by someone unable to grasp control.”
I shrug, pushing the hair out of my face. For me, control is necessary. As long as I have it, for the most part, I can keep my anxiety at bay. Dealing with a sick brother and an intense degree, I don’t have time to allow anxiety to suffocate me.
“I expected you to run,” he says. “Even more so when you found out about your family’s involvement in the fae world.”
“Figures.” I sigh. “What would’ve happened if I had? I wouldn’t have gotten far; I know that. I don’t have the energy or desire to fight this. So long as it doesn’t affect my life any more than it already does, I’ll accept it. I think you can agree there are more important things. You have your world, and I have mine. Sometimes they overlap, but when they do, we’ll just have to deal with it. I mean, preferably without the two of us having to interact, but I suppose some sacrifices must be made.” Perhaps this is the wrong moment to be snarky and make jokes.
He stands there, staring at me with what I can only interpret as a look of wonder on his annoyingly attractive face as the scene slips away.
I wake up on the couch with a knitted blanket draped over me and a cushion under my head. The TV is off, and the room is dark except for a crack of light coming from the kitchen.
I stare out into the darkness. Tristan can waltz into my dreams. Great. Now not only do I have to deal with him during the day, but I also can’t escape him at night, either. Can’t escape the way he makes my heart race and my stomach flip. I’m so screwed.
Exhausted as I am, this is the perfect opportunity to look through the house for some answers. I have to be quiet; I don’t want to wake anyone and have to lie about why I’m searching through old family things.
I tiptoe into the office, a small room with a couch, a desk, and chair. One wall is lined with bookshelves filled with old textbooks, some of my parents’ books, and our family albums. I cross the room, flicking on the lamp on the desk as I pass, and run my finger along the spines. I crouch and pull out an album.
I flip through the pages. Nothing. This one is far too recent to hold any answers.
I sigh, glancing at the shelf full of matching binders. They’re all too new. If I weren’t half asleep, I’d have realized that before I wasted my time in here. If I crawled into the attic, I might be able to find something that dates back far enough, but I can’t do that when I’m trying to stay quiet. I’m not going to get any answers tonight.
With a yawn, I drag myself to my bedroom and fall onto my bed, hoping Tristan will leave me alone for the rest of the night.
When I find myself in another dreamscape, anger swiftly rises, and I grit my teeth. My eyes focus on the ground beneath my feet. Cracked pavement. I frown as I lift my head, and gasp sharply when realization knocks the air out of me.
I’m not in my dream anymore. I’m in Tristan’s.
He’s standing atop a mess of rubble, staring right at me, but doesn’t see me. He doesn’t know I’m in his dream. How am I here?
I shiver, coughing on the smoke that’s heavy in the air, and blink until my vision is as clear as it’s going to get in this war-torn environment. There’s nothing left for as far as the eye can see. Buildings are gone, nothing left but piles of concrete and metal, and leafless trees are fallen, scattered in the mess. It looks like a scene out of a dystopian movie.
My eyes shift back to Tristan. He’s a mess. His dark clothing is torn, all but shredded in some places along his midsection, and his hair is darkened with dirt and ash. I walk closer, careful where I step, and watch his face pale. His eye are bloodshot and wide, rimmed by dark circles underneath. They’re bouncing all over the place, never stopping in one spot too long, but growing more and more frantic by the second. His chest rises and falls quickly, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides.
“Tristan,” I whisper, my voice cracking, and suddenly I’m fighting this all-consuming urge to comfort him. The pain in his expression is hurting me.
I say his name again, louder this time, but he still doesn’t hear me.
My eyes burn as I watch the dark fae leader fall to his knees and stare at the ruins with an utterly hopeless expression that makes my blood run cold.
Tristan wasn’t alive during this fae war, during the destruction of his people’s homeland, but he’s forced to experience it in his nightmares.