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Pain tore through my back, setting my skin on fire as I fought to pull her to her feet.

“Wake up!” she screamed.

The windows at the end of the hall shattered with her voice. Her panic took me, claiming me for itself. I fell as the ground shook once more, waiting for the impact on my knees.

But it never came.

I woke, gasping for breath. I bolted out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before my stomach purged. My back burned as I shoved my hair back out of my face, the skin splitting as I curled forward. Clutching the edge of the toilet, I waited for the heaves to end.

As soon as I could, I pushed to my feet and went for the mirror above the sink. Rinsing out my mouth, I hesitated to turn to look at my spine. It had only been a dream, and the pain I felt surely had to be a figment of the fear I felt upon waking.

But my shirt clung to my skin, feeling wet as it shifted. I pulled it over my head, moving slowly as I twisted to look at it in the mirror.

Three slash marks in the odd shape of a triangle marred the ink of my tattoo, cutting through the black shading of the curving branches of the tree tattoo that crawled up my spine. Blood trickled down from them, sliding down the back of my ribcage.

I pressed my hands into the countertop, curling my fingers around the edge as I stared at the frenzied look on my face. I’d dreamt of my aunt, and she’d known my name.

Not at first, having somehow confused me for the witch who’d died centuries before she was born. I clutched my head in my hands, bending over the sink as my stomach pitched once again. It didn’t make any sense. There wasnologic to anything like this.

My bedroom door slammed as I spun to face the bathroom door, grabbing the stone soap dispenser in hand and preparing to use it as a makeshift weapon. There were no plants in the bathroom, something I would need to remedy immediately.

The hulking form of a male filled the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom. His face was shadowed, his back cutting off all traces of the light coming from the windows behind him. My body hummed with energy, preparing for a fight.

“You’re bleeding,” Gray said finally, stepping forward.

Dropping the soap dispenser, I hurried to grab a towel off the rack. I wrapped it around my torso, shielding my breasts from view as he found the light switch with familiar ease.

“It’s nothing. Just my period,” I lied, deciding that the humiliation of openly discussing such a thing would be far better than admitting what I’d seen. There were some things that were just not normal for a witch. Being harmed by a dream was one of them. Only the Whites and Purples had the gift of sight within their bloodline.

“How am I supposed to uphold my end of the bargain if you aren’t honest with me, Witchling?” he said, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air.

“As you can see, I’m perfectly fine. Get out,” I snapped, keeping my back turned away from him. I didn’t want him to see the marks, not understanding what they meant. How could a dream hurt me? How could it mark me in my waking body?

“I can smell your blood. Show me,” Gray ordered, stepping forward. His fingers grasped the top of the towel, as if he meant to pull it away from my body. I didn’t know if the thought of being half-naked in front of him was worse than revealing the twisted injury on my back.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

I let go of the towel, anyway, feeling it fall around my skin. Only his fingers grasping it held it aloft as it parted to reveal my breasts. His gaze dropped to them as his face stilled, taking in the swell of them. Ifeltthe moment that gaze shifted slightly lower, grazing over my nipples and moving to my stomach. It was like a tangible thing, slithering over me like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

“I can think of far more interesting ways to spend the night,” I murmured, stepping forward.

His eyes darted to my face; his breathing carefully controlled as I touched my finger to his chest. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing a thin line of skin at the top. He wore no tie, no suit jacket. Only the thin white fabric of his shirt separated me from getting to his bare skin.

I slid a single finger into the gap, brushing it over his cool flesh.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, little witch,” he muttered, his face tense as he stared down at me.

I pursed my lips into a pout, a slow breath leaving me. “Promises, promises, Demon,” I argued.

He moved quickly, grasping me by the elbow and turning me forward so suddenly I barely had time to catch myself on the vanity. The harshness in the movement stole the breath from my lungs, leaving me panting as I leaned forward over the sink. He shifted behind me, placing a single hand to my uninjured shoulder. He gripped it, holding me still as I fought to push back against him.

That other hand brushed my hair over my shoulder. The tenderness of the motion made my heart clench, and I bared my teeth like a hissing wildcat. I’d rather he be rough and brutal as he inspected my injury.

I’d rather outright hatred than false affection.

His hand stilled on my flesh, making goosebumps rise to the surface. “Where did you get this?” he asked. His fingers resumed their motion, touching the wounds gently and sending a flame of agony through me.

I whimpered, grasping the edge of the sink more firmly.