Page 82 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

“Better mine than theirs.”

“It will change nothing, Maximillian.”

“Maybe they can escape.”

“It will change nothing, Maximillian.”

“Better mine than theirs!”

The ax falls again. The mob celebrates louder. Bas is gone now.

“No. No!”

“Max. Max!”

I whirl, glaring at Carl. Why does he sound so strange? Why has his voice gained such entrancing music? Why does he sound like…

“Alessandra?”

“Max.” She calls to me through the dark—of my mind as well as my soul. “Wake up. It’s all right, Hotness. Wake up. I’m here.”

“My blood for theirs,” I mumble. “Take me instead. My blood…”

“Ssshhh.” She strokes warm fingers against my clammy forehead. Her sheets smell of strawberries and vanilla. In the distance, a vast city rumbles and churns and honks and clamors through the night. There is a louder thunder. The train going by. How do I know that? “You’re safe. Listen to me. You’re safe, Max.”

“But they are not.”

She slides closer, wrapping a soft thigh over mine. “Baby, it was a dream.”

“It was my life.”

I hate myself for the snarl, but it is unavoidable. I already know she forgives me for it—as she has done countless times over the last ten days. She has led me from the hell of my memories with her comforting kisses, sweet caresses—and tight, welcoming body. That perfect sheath to which my cock has grown hopelessly addicted.

That miracle of connection…that my soul cannot exist without.

I cannot think about that right now. Any of it.

I kick back the bedcovers and rush to my feet. There is a chill in the night air, but I am still sweating from the dream. I stomp, clammy and naked, into Alessandra’s living room. While stepping through the shafts of moonlight, I rake my hands through my hair. Well, what Dmitri’s barber left of it. They are called stylists in this age, and I have subjected myself to having two inches shorn. I am not certain I enjoy the feeling—but after two centuries without a trim, I was likely due. Not that the choice was truly mine. Dmitri was accepting naught but compliance. There is a grand soiree in two nights, being hosted by the Hemline nobility. An advent far too important for Alessandra. Everything and everyone must be perfect, especially the man with whom she has chosen to attend.

Me.

But thinking about the party is not the reason for my disquiet. Nor are the waning recollections of my nightmare.

I pace the length of the room, taking in its exposed brick walls and sleek aluminum fixtures. When I first arrived here, Allie joked about my stunned stares. Well, Hotness, it’s not a palace. But if you squint real hard…

I did not squint. But then, just like now, I did struggle to accept it all as more than a grand, glorious fever dream. All these wonders… Television. Laptop. A furnace in the floor. A bookcase with hundreds of tomes in it. I ponder the resplendence of it all. The complete insanity. And yet I am still considered the lunatic here…

A rustle from the doorway jerks me out of the ruminations. Allie, wrapped in the throw blanket from the bed, is the heart of my frustration but also my fever. She is softness, skin, cream, luxury. Her curves are a captivating rival for the swaths of the blanket, which dip low enough to snare my attention. As she readjusts the cover, I am given a fleeting glimpse of the crevice I love most on her body.

“It was the same scene, wasn’t it?” Her husky voice chases the cold from the air. “You were thinking of your parents and Bastien.”

“People you do not believe in.” I turn from her, attempting an impassive shrug. “So let us not speak of it further.”

“Max—”

“Let us not speak of it, Alessandra.”

“Then come back to bed and let me help you forget it.” Her voice is no longer on the air. It heats the breadth of my back as she steals a hand around to my front. Despite my clenched effort at control, a hiss bursts off my lips as she circles my shaft. She pulls and squeezes in all the right ways, filling it with more blood.