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Wake up.

Wake. Up.

Nothing happens.

“Tell me, does the termsmall deathmean anything to you?” the Thief asks from where he leans against that pillar.

It’s just a dream. It’s not real.

“No,” I say, distractedly.

It’s only after I answer, that I process his words.

Small death. That does sound familiar.

The Thief of Souls smiles. “Come closer, and I’ll tell you.”

“How did I get here?” I pinch the fabric of the white shift I wear. It’s all but translucent.

Not what I went to sleep in.

The Thief pushes off the pillar. “I called and you came.”

My brows knit.

His hair and eyes are so dark they seem to absorb the light; it’s a sharp contrast to his pale skin. He crosses the room, his steps echoing.

He’s not real. This is not real.

That’s the only thing that keeps me from running. I don’t need to be frightened of a phantasm. He can’t hurt me. Not here.

The Thief steps up to me. “You didn’t run.”

“You’re not real,” I say.

A slow, creepy smile spreads across his face. “Is that what you think? That I’m not real?” He searches my face. Whatever he sees there makes him laugh. “You don’t believeanyof this is real, do you?”

The hairs on my forearms rise.

Just a dream, a really screwed up dream.

“If none of this is real, then I guess you and I are free to do whatever we please.”

He reaches out and runs a finger down the slope of my nose. “I could touch you. You could touch me—the Night King would never have to know. There are no repercussions for reveries, after all.”

I sidestep him. “If I touched you,” I say, my claws still out, “I doubt you would enjoy it.”

The Thief once again steps into my space, forcing me to back up. “That’s where you’re wrong, enchantress. I have …peculiartastes.” His eyes flick down to my throat and chest. “I’ve never been with a human. Or a siren. Or a mortal made fae. But I have been with women who fight back—that I have a healthy appetite for.”

Healthyis the last word I’d use to describe the Thief’s fetishes.

I go toe-to-toe with him. “That wasn’t the case when you were Karnon,” I say softly. “The way I remember it, you wouldn’t touch a woman unless she was incapacitated.”

The Thief of Souls stares at me; there’s something foreign and merciless in the dark depths of his eyes. “You have me entirely figured out, don’t you?” he says. “The Thief, too frightened to fuck a woman unless she’s prone.”

Before I get the chance to back away, he grabs me by the throat. “Perhaps I could disprove that notion? This is just a reverie, after all, just a twisted dream where a wicked man takes you against your will.”

My skin brightens.