Page 14

Nightmare

T here was something going on with Nightmare’s little human.

There had been since the previous morning, when Matteo had crawled out from Nightmare’s arms and rolled from the bed with a strange pulse of disappointment-tinged anger emanating from his soul piece.

Now they were several hours into their second bus ride of the day—Matteo couldn’t drive a vehicle, so they were taking public transportation—and Matteo was a jumble of emotions so conflicted that Nightmare was having trouble parsing through them.

It was…frustrating.

Part of that may have been due to lack of experience, Nightmare had to admit.

Terror, shock, awe, defeat—those were Nightmare’s expertise.

Hope and resentment and lust and shame—all of them blanketed under a fear that had been growing heavier the further they strayed from Seacliff—those were more challenging.

It was a pity because, if not for his concern, Nightmare might have enjoyed modern human travel.

Every now and then, one of their fellow travelers would fall into a fitful sleep and provide Nightmare with a little snack.

He didn’t usually prefer to feed in his human form, but after so long in the Void with no variety at all, the novelty of the experience made it well worth it.

Matteo, of course, did not doze off. He was too wary by half, even with Nightmare on the outside seat of their bus aisle.

In addition, Matteo seemed to find it his duty to lean over Nightmare and glare out of his hoodie at anyone who dared stare at Nightmare too long.

It was perplexing and amusing, the strange sort of protectiveness that lit up Matteo’s soul piece when he did so.

Humans were…odd.

Case in point: Why didn’t Matteo want Nightmare to find Dominico?

Matteo’s current state was evidence enough that it was necessary. He was jumping and twitching over every shadow not belonging to Nightmare, his hands clenched into fists inside his sleeves.

Living under that kind of fear for so long twisted a soul into knots. It was unacceptable that Nightmare allow it to fester inside Matteo any longer.

What Matteo needed was to watch Dominico get torn from this mortal plane by way of a million bloody pieces.

Matteo needed to see it with his own eyes and understand his past would never come back to haunt him again.

He needed to understand that Nightmare would rip the hearts out of anyone who dared try.

What other use was Nightmare for, if not to rend his future mate’s enemies into scattered bits of flesh?

The bus stopped with a loud lurch and a plume of smoke.

“We’re here,” Matteo said with a sigh. He pushed gently at Nightmare until Nightmare was standing in the aisle, and then he walked them off the bus.

There was a man in a suit and a cap holding a sign that said “Mr. Kozlov.” Matteo stopped far back from the man’s line of sight, cocking his head. “I think that might be us?” He pulled out his phone, reading something on the screen and nodding. “Ivan set it up. Same with the hotel.”

He approached what Nightmare could only assume was a hired human driver, giving the man a small, uncertain smile. “Hi. We’re your passengers?”

The man smiled back at Matteo, and there was something lustful in his gaze as he took stock of Nightmare’s human. Nightmare made a note of the man’s psychic signature; he’d find his way into the driver’s dreams sooner rather than later.

Matteo was not this man’s pet to ogle.

The suited driver took them to a hotel, and after a short registration process—wherein Matteo acted as if every question the concierge asked had to be answered under penalty of gruesome death—they ended up in a luxe room with two beds, neither quite as large as Matteo’s at home.

Matteo still whistled in approval as they entered. He seemed impressed enough with the costly fabrics and spacious bedroom. Even more so with the large bathroom and its demon-sized shower and standing bathtub.

Nightmare cared little for the room, but he was pleased to finally shed his human form again. He stretched his neck in relief, relishing the solid weight of his antlers.

“Ivan really set us up,” Matteo finally said, carefully placing his backpack on one of the beds and taking a seat next to it.

He’d dropped Nightmare’s hand when they’d entered the room, and he hadn’t picked it back up again. The distance was…displeasing.

“He’s fond of you, this Ivan?”

Matteo shook his head. “Ivan’s only fond of Nix and Sascha. Everyone else he tolerates. But we’ve got certain similarities in our upbringing. I guess he sort of…gets it.”

“Raised by cruel men,” Nightmare surmised.

“Yeah. But Ivan took that past and became a scary badass mob boss that nobody dares to fuck with, and I became”—Matteo waved a hand, gesturing in a way that encompassed all of him—“this.”

Nightmare stepped up to the bed, tugging Matteo’s hood down slowly, his shadows dancing over Matteo’s short, mussed hair. “And what’s wrong with this ?”

“Are you serious? I’m weak.” Matteo frowned down sullenly at his hands. “A coward.”

“You fear someone who would do you great harm. I see only logic in that.”

“You don’t know much about toxic masculinity, huh?”

Nightmare tried to parse through that riddle. “Fearing for your life makes you less masculine?”

Matteo sighed. “When someone threatened Ivan and his family, he gathered a group of demons and vampires and loyal men and executed all the traitors in his midst. He didn’t get himself adopted like a kitten and use it as an excuse to hide out for the rest of his life.”

“Do you not wish to do the same?” Nightmare asked. “To execute your pursuers? Is that not why you called me?”

Matteo didn’t seem to find Nightmare’s words comforting. His frown deepened, the space between his brows furrowing. That strange resentment festered in his soul piece again. “No. I don’t know.” He bit at his lower lip. “I want them gone.”

“That’s what we work toward.” Nightmare traced a finger down Matteo’s cheek. “You need not be the cruel executioner, Matteo. You have me.”

Matteo batted Nightmare’s hand away, glaring up at him. “You’re just saying all that so you can leave!”

Ah. Yes. Humans were indeed strange and confusing.

Hadn’t Nightmare told Matteo he was staying? Told him he intended to keep Matteo for his own?

Why was Nightmare’s word not enough?

Nightmare’s shadows whirled around his chest, pinching and poking at him. The truth, they seemed to say. The whole of it.

Nightmare glared down at them. Matteo wasn’t ready. But Nightmare couldn’t allow him to stay in this stew of agitation either.

And what did it matter if Matteo was ready? Nightmare wasn’t letting him get away, no matter the outcome.

Nightmare cocked his head, staring down at his summoner. Matteo was looking down at his feet and nibbling at his lower lip again, as if ashamed of his outburst.

“Take a shower, sweet summoner. Wash off the scent of foreign souls.”

Matteo nodded, the very picture of dejection.

Nightmare placed a finger under Matteo’s chin, lifting his head. “When you’re done, I’ll tell you a story. Would you like that, sweet?”

Matty blinked large, sad eyes at him. “A true one?”

Nightmare nodded.

“One that will make me feel better?”

Nightmare couldn’t promise that. “One that will assure you I am here to stay,” he said instead.

Some time later Matteo emerged from the steam-filled bathroom. He wore black sweatpants that hung low on his slender hips and a damp towel pressed to his chest, covering most of his skin.

“I left my shirt in my bag,” he told Nightmare, doing a strange sort of side step to his bag, one that kept him facing toward the room.

But when he bent to grab his shirt, the towel shifted, revealing…

“ Stop ,” Nightmare ordered.

His shadows were out before he could halt them, blanketing Matteo’s torso like a protective covering. Nightmare peeled them away with great effort.

He needed to see.

Nightmare stalked toward his summoner. “Dominico?” he asked, voice deadly soft.

Matteo nodded slowly, letting his towel fall now that he was caught out. “The punishments,” he explained dully. “He always preferred knives.”

That fact was clear enough. Matteo’s chest and back were a network of crisscrossed scars, raised white lines shocking in their number. They stopped at his neckline and arms, a deliberate choice. There was nothing anyone would see when Matteo was clothed.

And so far, Matteo had always been clothed with Nightmare. His top half, at least.

Something cold and dark and vicious snaked through Nightmare’s veins as Matteo turned to show Nightmare his back, seeming to sense Nightmare needed to see all of it.

Nightmare stepped closer, his shadows swirling in agitation.

One death hadn’t been enough for Luca Caruso. One death wouldn’t be enough for Dominico either. The man deserved an eternity of punishment. An eon of pain.

Nightmare found himself tracing his talon along the white lines. Matty stood still, allowing Nightmare to look and feel his fill.

“Kind of ugly, huh?” Perhaps Matteo was trying to be flippant, but there was a vulnerable edge to his soft question.

Nightmare scoffed as he followed another line. “I already told you: Every bit of you is pretty, Matteo. Even these.”

He was so beautiful, Nightmare’s summoner.

Slight of build and tender of heart, with eyes a demon could get lost in.

The scars only added texture, rough patches over distressingly soft skin.

Nightmare could choose to despise them, evidence as they were of the pain Matteo had suffered.

But they were a part of Nightmare’s summoner, and as such they weren’t something Nightmare could ever hate.

Nightmare placed careful hands on Matteo’s shoulders and turned him around.

“I’m not ashamed of them,” Matteo told him, though his large eyes were shining with unshed tears. “It’s just—people always have questions.”

Nightmare laid a hand on Matteo’s cheek, coveting the way his human leaned into the touch. “So beautiful, sweet.”