Page 16 of Sweet Nightmares (Wicked Mirrors #2)

Chapter Thirteen

J ane held her breath, her heart raging in her chest and her core pulsing with… with a feeling she didn’t recognize. They were in their bedchamber after officially marrying, and the marriage needed consummation.

Jane knew what that meant.

She’d done it before… horrifically.

Swallowing hard, anticipation rolled in her stomach like a mixture of butterfly wings and rotten tomatoes. She desperately wanted to know what his touch might feel like, especially after that kiss.

Her fingers grazed her lips, and it kept everything in her to hold back a moan at the memory.

His kisses were consuming. But sex?

Would he be soft or demanding? Gentle or rough? And what did she want him to be?

Jane had no idea.

She craved it, yet also dreaded it.

Would it hurt as much as it did all the other times?

Jane had never had sex without pain. Not once.

She heard from the other ballerinas that sex could be pleasurable.

They used to speak in hushed whispers to their friends about the glorious things their partners would do to them.

Often involving tongues and inventive positions.

Once, Jane even heard about the use of blindfolds and chains.

She found it frightening and tantalizing. What if she could trust a man enough to chain her up? What could it be like?

Nightmare sat underneath the covers with his shirt off and chest exposed. His chiseled pectorals and abs were on full display.

Jane gulped and walked to the wardrobe.

Jane tried to grab the laces of her corset at the back. But as she did, she got an idea. “I—” she started and then stopped. “Will you help me?” She turned her back to him and motioned to her laces.

She didn’t need his help, but she wanted it.

Jane bit her lip. Waiting. When nothing happened, she closed her eyes. Defeated, but then…

The bed creaked, the springs bouncing as he stood up. With every step closer, her heart beat like a war drum.

Anticipation ate away at her. One step. Another. Another. Jane sucked in a breath.

His large fingertips grazed the center of her back, and she desperately wanted to lean into the touch. But she didn’t.

The last thing she wanted was for Nightmare to know that she wanted him. It just couldn’t happen.

She held her breath.

His fingers brushed her red curls across her back and over her shoulder, his fingertips skimming the nape of her neck.

A shudder ran through her body, and her core tightened.

Slowly, Nightmare dug his fingers into her laces as he loosened them. Tension turned in her stomach. If it were a noise, it would be a string quartet playing, plucking the strings faster and faster as the unease rose before the climax of a ballet.

When Nightmare finished with the laces, his hands came up to both her shoulders, running across them as he lowered her sleeves. Once her arms were free, he skimmed his hands down her stomach and off her thighs, letting the garment pool at her feet.

Jane stepped out of it as Nightmare turned his attention to her petticoats and then to her chemise. One by one, he removed her clothing from her body until she was naked, still standing with her back toward him.

Jane gulped, swallowing past the lump in her throat. Then she slowly turned, and as she did, her breasts grazed his chest, her nipples hardening. Her eyes dipped down, and disappointment whispered through her. She wanted to see his penis, but Nightmare still wore his trousers.

“Thank you for saving my life.” Jane’s gaze tracked up and met his piercing silver eyes. From this close, she saw the streaks of blue in them—the streaks of his mortal form remaining.

Nightmare grunted and stepped back. Then he turned on his heel and returned to bed, slipping back under the covers.

Jane’s eyebrows bunched. He’d just gotten back into bed and closed his eyes.

Closed. His. Eyes .

What?

Jane followed him and lay down. Waiting and still hoping.

But nothing happened.

After a while, her eyes drooped closed, and darkness consumed her.

And that was when the nightmares started. She dreamed of all the men who abused her. Over and over and over again. Every night for the next four years.

Villains never took care of their messes.

Jane was good at handling crime scenes, and even covering them up at this point.

While it was true that the police had made a deal with Nightmare to be able to solve any murder instantly, there were a lot of loopholes.

First, the deal didn’t work on Mirror-Blessed, but second, it didn’t work on anyone who had a bargain to subvert it.

So, of course, the police’s bargain wouldn’t work on Nightmare.

However, it didn’t keep them from investigating.

So, Jane often had to clean up crime scenes before the police arrived. She wasn’t sure what they would do if they found out that an ancient Mirror God was out in the wild, murdering people whenever he wanted. However, she didn’t want to know

But if there was one skill Jane had, it was cleaning up other people’s messes.

Unfortunately, getting married last night had kept her from getting to the crime scene in a reasonable time, so her husband’s body had already been discovered, and she was suspect number one—especially after immediately remarrying, which seemed highly unjust because in what world would she have the strength to smash her husband’s skull in?

Well… in this world, because anyone could bargain with a mirror for magic. But she hadn’t, and she wasn’t Mirror-Blessed. No, she’d just sold her soul and body to a monster—a monster who crushed men’s skulls.

Although technically, Jane was guilty. She had asked her monster to kill her husband. Did that make her a murderer? Probably. The problem was that she didn’t care. That man deserved to die, and Jane wouldn’t have her life ruined because of it.

The problem was that his body had already been moved to the morgue. A terrible thing, except that her sister and new closest friend worked there. Jane could get in and tamper with the evidence, erasing anything that might lead back to her. But Jane couldn’t stomach getting her sister in trouble.

Prince Emrys Avalon had no such compunctions. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it.

Jane ran into him, walking through the concrete decor-less halls on the way to the lab, where her first husband’s corpse was to be found.

At seeing Emrys, her eyes went wide, and the muscles in her back coiled. “Why are you here?” Jane whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

“Your husband requested I bury this for you.” Emrys plucked an invisible piece of lint from his jacket and smiled like a wicked witch. “Shall we?” Emrys motioned forward to the lab.

Jane rubbed her temples and shook her head. This was not going to go well. Jane felt it in her sinews and connective tissues. Handsome, arrogant princes never helped with anything. Usually, they just got in the way.

But he held power so Jane would take his help.

Emrys reached the doorknob first, twisted it, and held open the heavy wooden door, all the while his eyes mischievous and locked on Jane.

But the real trouble started when Jane stepped into the doorway next to him.

His gaze swept into the morgue and clocked Quinnevere, following her movements like the chalk outline around a corpse, and as he watched, a darkness swirled in his irises—literally—and seeped out of his suit coat.

They seemed to buzz with some sort of excitement.

“Emrys—” Jane started, but the prince seemed lost in his thoughts. “Hey, playboy,” Jane gently tapped his face, pulling him out of his trance—“focus?”

“Why yes, of course.” Emrys dropped the door nearly on Jane and walked into the room like a preening peacock.

Well, this was fucking perfect.

At this, Quinnevere’s gaze shot up—she had been so absorbed in the body she was dissecting that she completely blocked out both Jane and Emrys entering the room. The scents of decomposition and formalin hovered like a fog in the room. It stung Jane’s nostrils and surrounded her .

A snake of nerves slithered up her insides, coiling into the rungs of her ribcage as Jane’s gaze took in the pale white corpse of her headless first husband.

The snake coiled tighter, moving around the edges of her heart.

Jane wanted to feel bad, but all she felt was relief, accompanied by a hint of guilt.

“Oh, Janey, what are you—” Quinn cut herself off when her gaze latched onto the prince. She stammered, opening and closing her mouth a couple of times before she took her hands out of the corpse and smiled. “Uh, hello, Mr.Prince, sir?” she said it all like a question. “None of that seemed right.”

“Technically, you should refer to me as Your Royal Highness, but you can call me Emrys.” Emrys strolled over to Quinnevere and stopped inches from her, sliding his hands into his pockets. His voice was laced with pure seduction, and Jane wanted to vomit a little bit in her mouth.

She was going to kill him before he touched her sister.

“Oh, uh, Your Royal Highness, Emrys.” Quinnevere’s eyebrows drew together like she was still questioning if she had done it right, and then she made an awkward curtsy-bob-like movement.

He chuckled. “Perfect.”

Jane walked to the edge of the table to get a better view of them.

“Sorry,” Quinnevere said. “One does not often meet the prince with their hands inside a body.”

“I’d say you are the first person I’ve ever met with their hands inside a body.” He paused, cocking his head. “At least in this context.”

Eww. Jane could not unhear that, but naive Quinnevere only asked, “What other context could there be…”

Emrys raised a suggestive eyebrow.

It took Quinnevere a moment to grasp the meaning. “Oh.” She nodded, her eyes dipping to her core as if she were imagining it. “Well, probably less bloody.”

“Possibly.”