Page 18

Story: When Death Whispers

17

I wake slowly—dragged from sleep like I’m rising through water. My limbs feel heavy, my mouth dry, my body sore. For a few seconds, I can’t tell if I’m in my bed or in that eerie forest. My thoughts feel scrambled, slow, like they’re fighting through fog.

My breath catches as memories crash into me, sharp and disjointed like glass shattering in reverse.

The shadows—slithering around my legs like they belonged there, cold and possessive. My monster’s voice, rasping my name with a hunger that felt both terrifying and intimate.

And then him .

Rad. A beast straight out of some ancient myth—all fur and muscle and horns. The way he stepped into the room like it was his by right, like he was summoned by the very panic in my chest.

The tension between him and my monster had been suffocating.

And then…

Hudson in the forest. His voice. His hands. His body below above mine, his cock inside me, his breath catching like he needed me to keep him grounded. Like I was something sacred.

God.

I sit up too fast and immediately regret it, dizzy and breathless. Was it a dream? It had to be. I mean, Rad showing up like some horned shadow savior? Hudson in a nightmare forest, touching me like I was the only thing that existed? There’s no way that was real.

But my thighs ache. My core is sore.

I reach up and touch my lips without thinking. They’re swollen.

Jesus Christ.

I’m halfway through debating whether or not I’ve officially lost my mind when the floor creaks down the hallway.

“Parker?”

Hudson’s voice, low and rough, cuts through the silence like a knife.

I jolt like I’ve been electrocuted.

He steps into view a second later, hoodie pulled on, hair still damp from a shower. He smells like me . Like my tangerine blossom soap. His ocean-blue eyes meet mine, and my stomach does this traitorous flip, like it’s happy to see him.

He stops when he sees me sitting upright on the couch, wide-eyed and blushing like I’ve been caught in the middle of something—which, to be fair, I kind of have.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. His voice is soft. Careful.

“You didn’t.” My voice cracks, so of course that lie holds no weight at all. Awesome.

He raises an eyebrow, not calling me out, but not buying it either. “You okay?”

I nod too fast, pulling the blanket I don’t remember grabbing tighter around myself. “Yeah. Just… weird dreams.”

His mouth tightens. Something flickers behind his eyes, and for a second, I wonder if he knows. Oh god, did I say his name out loud while sleeping? Did he hear me moan? But he doesn’t press further. Only nods slowly like he’s chewing on something, then takes a step closer.

And my whole body reacts like it’s still caught in that dream.

That forest.

Him.

He stops a few feet away—respectful, careful—but his gaze doesn’t leave mine.

“You sure?” he asks, softer this time.

I force the lie again. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

But I’m not. Not even close. Because I don’t know what was real. And I can’t look at him without remembering the heat of his body against mine.

And he doesn’t even know.

Right?

Hudson drags a hand through his damp hair, those white streaks catching the light, more vivid than yesterday. His shirt clings to his chest—his own shirt this time, not mine—but all I can see is the image of him bare, holding me like he never wanted to let go.

He clears his throat. “We should eat something. I can make toast or something?”

“Yeah,” I manage. “Toast sounds good.”

He moves into the kitchen like he’s lived here his whole life. It should be weird. But it isn’t. It’s weird that it isn’t weird.

I follow, blanket still wrapped around my shoulders like armor. Night seems to have fallen now, and I’m left wondering how long I slept.

I go back to the couch to grab my phone and notice with a start that the side table lamp is back on, bulb intact, and there is no glass anywhere. I had completely forgotten about the light exploding and now I’m more confused than ever.

Did I dream everything? How much of it was real?

It felt real. But was it?

I shake my head absently, returning to the kitchen where Hudson is already busy grabbing the bread and sliding it into the toaster, hands steady, movements efficient. I go to the fridge, desperate to be useful, even though my hands are shaking slightly.

“Want anything for your toast?” I ask, trying to sound normal.

“Butter would be good,” he says. But his voice is rough now—raspy, like he’s not sure he trusts it.

I pass him the butter dish, and our fingers graze. A jolt of heat rockets through me. He freezes. Just for a second. But it’s long enough to feel this spark zipping between us. His knuckles twitch, and for the briefest moment, I think he might drop the dish entirely.

Then he clears his throat, steps back like he didn’t just short-circuit.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, voice low, almost hoarse.

I turn back to the fridge, pretending I need something else. Anything to keep my hands busy. My body’s still buzzing like I stuck a fork in the toaster, and my brain’s shouting at me to get it together.

It was just a dream. A weird, hyperreal, sexy-as-hell dream that needs to stay buried in the dark recesses of my mind.

Only… it feels like more than a dream. It feels like my body remembers him—like it wants to remember. Every heated grind, every breathless moan, every inch of him buried inside me.

I force myself to grab the jam.

He’s already plating the toast when I turn around, but his eyes flick up as I approach. Something dark simmers beneath his usual brightness. Tension coils between us again, taut and unspoken.

“So,” I say, placing the jam beside the butter. “Dreams.”

“Right,” he says, pausing with the knife in his hand. “You, uh… have any you remember?”

The question hangs there, heavy with too much meaning.

I open my mouth, then close it. “Vaguely.”

His eyes search mine. “Me too.”

God, this is torture.

We both look away, like the toast has suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world. I tear off a corner of mine and chew it just to avoid saying something stupid. Or something too damn honest.

He leans against the counter next to me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine.

“You’ve got jam,” I say, pointing to the corner of his mouth.

He raises an eyebrow, but before he can wipe it, I reach over without thinking—thumb brushing against his lip.

Big mistake.

His breath stutters.

My heart does, too.

I pull my hand back like it burned me. “Sorry. That was?—”

“No, it’s fine,” he says quickly, but he’s staring at me like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve. “Thanks.”

It’s like we’re both waiting for something to tip the balance and send us over the edge.

But neither of us moves.

And neither of us brings up my monster, or the death attempts, or the fact that we’re stuck together with something unnamed brewing between us.

Instead, we eat toast.