Page 16 of Ashen Souls

His hand slid from my wrist to my forearm, the grip locking just shy of a bruise. A hard muscle jumped along his jaw before he exhaled through his teeth, fighting a hunger that had outlived empires.

“My patience has bled dry,” he whispered.

His fingertips found the low dip of my neckline, moving in a slow crawl. He ignored the fabric, his touch following the silk’s edge, letting the fire of his skin burn right through the material.

He leaned in. The scent of smoke wrapped around my throat as he pressed his face close. The sudden, wet drag of his tongue against the shell of my ear woke something beneath my skin with sharp anticipation.

“It won't be long now, Patches.”

The shrill scream of a monitor pierced the room. I lunged awake, gasping as the sterile hospital room emerged from the haze.

The silk and ash were gone. Bleached walls and the clinical hum of fluorescent tubes took their place. Cold sweat glued the thin hospital sheets to my body.

But the imprint of his touch remained. The brand of his fingertips still burned right above my heart, and the rough gravel of his whisper still echoed in my ear.

5

Isurfaced slowly. Waking up didn't feel like a transition; it felt like being dragged face-first across a rough floor.

Pale morning light slipped through the blinds, washing the room in indifferent gray. Beside me, the monitors continued their mechanical ticking—proof that the normal world had remained intact.

I looked down. The thin sheets were twisted around my legs. My throat was raw, like I’d spent the night screaming without making a sound. And when I flexed my hand, a sharp burn flared in my wrist. Right where his fingers had clamped over my pulse.

Most dreams dissolve in the light. They warp and thin out until there’s nothing left to hold on to. But this one stayed.

Daeren.

Whenever I tried to summon his exact features, they slipped out of reach, but the weight of his presence remained undeniable. The heat of his skin. The absolute authority in his stare. The dark rasp of his warning.

Dreams aren’t supposed to feel deliberate. They aren’t supposed to answer you.

I recited the clinical excuses. Concussion. Narcotics. A bruised brain piecing together a fever dream to cope with a near-death experience. A perfectly sound diagnosis.

And entirely useless.

Because beneath the logic, beneath the impossibility of ash and velvet, the truth was simple.

My soul knew him.

I swallowed hard. I should have been terrified. A monster had trapped me in his bed, claiming he’d been watching me. Yet, staring up at the hospital ceiling, the most dangerous realization wasn't the impossibility of him.

I hadn't felt a single ounce of fear. I just wanted him to finish what he started.

The door clicked open, breaking the silence. My parents stepped inside. My mother carried a paper cup and an unspoken worry that made the room feel too small, while my father claimed the chair in the corner.

“You’re awake.” Her voice was hushed. “How’s your head?”

“Better.” A half-truth. “Still aching. And… I had some vivid dreams.”

She set the cup on the tray and swept my hair back from my forehead with the same careful touch she’d used when I was small, as if she could smooth the fear out of me by repetition alone.

“Dreams get quieter,” she murmured. “They always do.”

“Do they?”

She didn’t answer. She only handed me the cup. The water stung pleasantly on my teeth. She watched me take measured sips, her eyes searching my face for whatever I was keeping from her.

Because part of me didn’t want the quiet she promised.