Page 21 of Ashen Souls

“You are not real. All of this is just an illusion.”

“Then wake yourself,” he replied, towering right at the edge of the mattress. “Make me stop. Push me away.”

I didn’t move.

He reached out, tracing a single fingertip along the ridge of my collarbone. The touch of his skin burned hotter than the stifling air. “You don’t want to wake.”

My spine curved toward him in an instinctive betrayal of my own will. A bitter flash of shame hit me, but beneath his intense gaze, the real world simply dissolved.

“Stop,” I managed, but the command lacked teeth.

“You can say the word,” he whispered, leaning closer until the raw heat of his skin enveloped me. “But your heartbeat already gave you away.”

I thought he was going to kiss me. My mind was already conjuring the weight of his lips on mine, the slick slide of his tongue.

But Daeren didn't rush.

Instead, his large hand wrapped gently but immovably around my neck. His thumb slid down, tracing the hollow of my throat before coming to rest against my bare sternum.

“Something is missing here,” he murmured, his brow furrowing as his thumb stroked the empty skin above my heart.

The words made no sense.

Before I could question it, Daeren leaned over me. He buried his face in the curve of my neck, inhaling my scent so deeply it felt like he was pulling the air straight from my lungs.

“You were so innocent. So fucking sweet. I promise, one day, I will put it back where it belongs.” His hands clenched into fists, digging into the silk on either side of my head.

My hands twitched. I wanted to touch him. I needed to know how his shoulders felt beneath my palms.

But before the thought could even finish forming, he vanished.

I gasped, my eyes snapping open to the cold light of morning.

The smoke and silk were gone.

I was staring at a poster of Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a faded relic from my puberty, taped to the floral wallpaper of my childhood bedroom.

7

♫ LYRYXX—DANCING WITH MY DEMONS

The scrape of my fork against the plate sounded too loud in the sunlit kitchen.

“Have the rest of the eggs and bacon, Aveline.” Mom hovered near the stove with a spatula like a threat.

I pushed the plate an inch away. “Mom, if I eat one more bite, my stomach is going to rip my stitches.”

“You need protein. Your body just went through massive trauma. You have to eat to heal.”

“Healing is great,” I muttered, leaning back against the chair and immediately regretting the pull on my ribs. “But I'd rather not survive a car crash just to die of atherosclerosis by Tuesday.”

Across the table, Matt choked on a mouthful of orange juice, and Chloe poorly disguised a laugh as a cough.

It had been a few days since they brought me home. I had finally started abandoning the bedroom, migrating to the living room or the kitchen just to prove my legs still worked.

Mom treated me like spun glass, ready to lock me back in my room and spoon-feed me soup at the slightest wince.

But I needed the change of scenery. I couldn't stare at the floral wallpaper anymore, waiting for a hallucination that refused to return.