Page 4

Cat

C ruelty was still alive by the time I closed myself in the bedroom she’d magnanimously showed me to. I’d almost shifted and ripped her throat out sixteen times, and only the memory of the nonexistent gates held me back. And the fact she wanted my husband weak, hurt. Dead?

She was delusional enough to be committed to an asylum.

I was exhausted by the time I locked the solid oak door and checked it was truly locked four times.

Then I showered, changed into a vintage white lace nightgown—the only available pyjamas—and climbed into the enormous walnut four-poster bed.

I knew a locked door wouldn’t keep Cruelty out, but I felt better with those metal tumblers in place.

When I closed my eyes, I saw Honey the night of the memorial, wearing her bright pink fuck you dress, and carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, but trying so damn hard to hide it.

My first tears were slow and hot, but when I thought of Honey at the memorial, I thought of Professor Poppy fending off the vultures pretending to grieve our friend, and I remembered Phil glaring with fury at that dick who livestreamed the event. Liars and traitors, both of them.

The dam broke and sobs poured free, hooking sharp claws into my chest before they scratched up my throat.

I buried my face in the navy velvet pillowcase and cried my heart out. How was I supposed to trust anyone ever again? I couldn’t. I had to ignore their gentle smiles and caring words and listen to my gut instead.

Byron kept so many secrets from me that they broke me, and ultimately killed him. If he’d spoken to me about any of them, we could have fixed them—him, Honey, and I. We could have at least tried.

The kind professor who encouraged me, who was always considerate of my needs and my grief, was the deluded lackey of the goddess of nightmares who caused my grief.

I thought I could trust Poppy, that she was the only genuine teacher at Ford, and instead she was a monster.

A wolf hiding in the carcass of a harmless sheep.

The only decent professor, Dean Fairchild, had been killed by Nightmare’s followers. By innocent people blackmailed into killing for her, like I was, like Honey was. And here I was, laying in silk sheets in a manor owned by the monster who’d pulled every one of Nightmare’s strings.

I curled up on my side with my knees to my chest and sobbed so hard my throat hurt, my face burned, and my eyes grew gritty and sore. I fell asleep like that when the sobs finally drained me, cold down to my bones, the lace gown and thin sheets doing nothing to keep me warm.

I had a half-thought about getting out of bed to find an extra blanket, and suddenly I was on my feet.

The floor was cool against the soles of my feet, the chill air pricking my skin where the night gown didn’t cover.

I couldn’t tell if I was asleep or awake, but it didn’t matter when a voice called to me from the corridor outside, gruff and smooth all at once, and full of warmth.

I could bathe in that warmth, sink into it and stay there forever.

I was moving before my brain could catch up, instinct sending me to the heavy door, opening it in a rush.

The hallway beyond was dark, interrupted by slices of moonlight through the windows placed periodically along the long hall.

All the doors were closed except for mine.

I left it open, urgency and excitement propelling me into a run.

Cat, that voice called again, distant but so achingly familiar that my heart seized.

I’m coming, I replied, my voice soundless but powerful. I didn’t need to speak the words when we were connected like this, his soul reaching out to mine.

I ran faster, the skirts of my lace gown trailing behind me, the landing dark at the end of the hallway, spreading out into the rest of the manor.

A shiver formed between my shoulder blades, a presence cooler and heavier than the man who spoke to me, as creeping and sinister as that stare I felt from the Stalker.

I whirled, searching the moonlit corridor, but there was only me and my rapid breaths.

Cat…

I whipped back around and hurried down the hall. I’d had half a thought about how dim it was, and then there was a candelabrum in my hand, iron twisted together in the stem of a rose, clutching three taper candles that gave off a haunting champagne glow.

Now I could see where I was going, it was easy to take the long staircase down to the ground floor, to follow the voice and the growing tug behind my sternum.

Fate itself guided me down lushly appointed corridors, past flocked red wallpaper, scarlet brocade curtains, bronze light fixtures and chandeliers that lay dark and dead.

The manor slept but somewhere close he still called my name.

I found myself in front of an arched doorway framed with clear glass panels, the door hanging open like it was beckoning me through. The conservatory lay on the other side, two storeys high and full of dark foliage and moonlight.

I slowed as I entered, trailing through the vast space past dark sunflowers and purple ruffles, black peony poppies and penny black eyes.

They crowded the space, deep violet vines rising above my head, lush green foliage spread between them.

It was beautiful, the fragrant scent of flowers filling my lungs, bringing a sense of unexpected peace.

That peace was eclipsed by bright joy when I walked past towering black hollyhocks into a circle of clear space in the middle of the conservatory. Moonlight shone through the glass dome above, forming an intricate pattern on the floor. And standing in the middle of those moonbeams was Tor.

At some point the candelabrum vanished, but I didn’t need it with the moon dressing us in silver gauze.

I flung my arms around Tor the second I was close enough, and was rewarded with his arms enfolding me too.

Warm, protected, home. I sagged, resting my head on his shoulder, the delicate scent of the flowers entwined with leather and amber, sandalwood and safety.

“Is this real?” I asked, finding my voice for the first time, stronger with him here. Like I’d been a phantom floating through the halls of Darkmore Manor, now I was real again.

“Feels real to me,” he replied, his voice roughened with emotion. He squeezed me tighter, burning the impression of his body, his arms, his love through the lace of my nightgown into my skin. “I was so fucking scared for you. What were you playing at, running away?”

“Protecting Miz,” I replied, unrepentant. I drew back to meet his eyes, to gaze at that perfect face I’d missed even though it had only been hours. The exact right mix of soft beauty and masculine harshness, the tattoos on his throat pulling me closer, the scar in his upper lip calling to me.

I didn’t know who moved first, but then we were kissing, our lips moulding to each other with passion that edged violence, needful and desperate and with so much emotion that I was choking on it.

Tor gasped my name, and I couldn’t clutch him close enough.

My skin was scorching beneath the lace gown, tingling where his hands spread across my hips, yanking my body flush to his so I felt the hardness just begging for my touch.

“I—”

A shrill, distant scream ripped me away from him, and Tor fell like smoke and moonlight through my hands. I didn’t even get to say goodbye, to kiss him one last time. I jolted hard, rattling the bones of my own skeleton, coming awake to find myself standing in the middle of the conservatory, alone.

“Shit,” I gasped. Did I sleepwalk here? And that scream. I could still hear it, the final ring of a cry cutting through the silence. It wasn’t coming from the conservatory but outside, and distant enough that I couldn’t place a direction.

It took a while to figure out how to work my body, to realise that I was awake and no longer dreaming.

There was no candelabrum, no Tor, but I was still in the gauzy lace dress and surrounded by darkly beautiful plants.

By the time I picked up my feet, the scream had faded, but I retraced my steps from my dream and found the entryway where I’d entered the manor only hours ago with Cruelty.

The door was unlocked when I tried it, but that wasn’t surprising. Cruelty was a goddess, and so powerful she’d managed to trick and manipulate Nightmare. She’d hardly be afraid of burglars and home intruders.

A dead silence hung like a shroud when I tiptoed down the wide stone steps onto the lawn, my ears straining for a noise. But not even an owl hooted, and I couldn’t be sure the scream hadn’t come from my dream.

I stood there for long minutes, my arms wrapped around myself and the wind driving itself through gaps in the white fabric into my skin, thinking of how it had felt to be held by Tor, kissed by him.

When it was clear no more screams were coming, and that I might have imagined it in the first place, I turned around and went back inside.

Sleep came reluctantly and fought me the whole way, and I didn’t dream at all.