The scream died in my throat as I watched Sarah Mitchell take her last breath.
Not in reality. In her dream.
I stood frozen in the corner of Sarah's subconscious, watching a scene that should have been impossible. A man with perfect features bent over her sleeping form, his lips touching hers in what looked like the gentlest kiss imaginable. But I could feel the life being pulled from her body, drawn out through that intimate contact like air from a punctured balloon.
Sarah wasn't fighting. That was the worst part. Her dream-self lay on silk sheets that had materialized from nowhere, her blonde hair spread across a pillow that sparkled with starlight. She looked... peaceful. Happy, even. Like she was finally getting everything she'd ever wanted.
The man pulling the life from her was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. Tall, with black hair that caught light that didn't exist and eyes so dark they seemed to swallow everything around them. His face was carved perfection - sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips that promised things no mortal man could deliver.
And he was killing her with a kiss.
I tried to move, to scream, to do something. But this wasn't my dream. I was just a visitor here, a witness to something that shouldn't be possible. My ability to enter other people's dreams had never prepared me for this.
The killer's head turned slightly, and for one heart-stopping moment, I thought he was looking directly at me. Those dark eyes seemed to pierce through the dream-logic that kept me hidden. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, like he knew exactly who I was.
Like he'd been waiting for me to find him.
Sarah's breathing stopped.
I jerked awake in my chair beside her hospital bed, my heart slamming against my ribs. The machines around Sarah were going crazy, alarms blaring as her vitals flatlined. Nurses rushed in, shouting medical terms I didn't understand, pushing me out of the way as they tried to restart her heart.
But I already knew it was too late. I'd watched her die.
"Time of death, 3:47 AM."
The doctor's words hit me like a physical blow. I stared at Sarah's still form on the bed, her face peaceful in death just like it had been in the dream. No signs of struggle. No obvious cause of death.
Except for the faint mark on her lips.
"Dr. Cross?" The nurse was looking at me with concern. "Are you all right? You look pale."
I touched my own lips unconsciously. They felt cold. "I'm fine. Just... tired."
That was a lie. I was anything but fine. This was the seventh woman to die this way in the past three months. Seven young women, all found dead in their sleep with no obvious cause. All with the same peaceful expression and the same barely visible mark on their lips.
And I was the only one who knew how they really died.
My phone buzzed. Marcus.
"Another one?" His voice was rough with exhaustion when I answered.
"Sarah Mitchell. Twenty-four, marketing assistant at Blackthorne Industries." I rattled off the facts like they could somehow make this normal. "Same as the others. No signs of struggle, no obvious cause of death."
"Jesus, Aria. That's seven in three months."
"I know." I walked to the window, needing air. The hospital parking lot was empty except for a few scattered cars under the streetlights. "The media's starting to call it the Sleeping Beauty Murders."
"Because they all look so peaceful?"
"Because they all look like they died happy." I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. "Marcus, what if I told you I know how they're dying?"
Silence on the other end. Marcus Kane had been my partner at the FBI for two years. He was a good agent and a better friend, but there were things about me he didn't know. Things no one knew.
"What do you mean?" he asked carefully.
I closed my eyes. "Nothing. I'm just tired. This case is getting to me."
"Hey." His voice softened. "We'll figure this out. We always do."
But we wouldn't. Not unless I told him the truth about what I could do. About how I'd spent the last ten years of my life slipping into other people's dreams like a thief in the night, trying to help trauma victims by walking through their nightmares with them.
About how every night for the past decade, the same man had been watching me from the shadows of those dreams.
The same man I'd just seen kiss Sarah Mitchell to death.
"I'll meet you at the precinct," I told Marcus, ending the call.
I needed to get out of this hospital. The smell of disinfectant and death was making me sick. But as I turned to leave, something caught my eye on Sarah's nightstand. A leather journal, open to the last entry.
I shouldn't read it. It was evidence, and I wasn't the lead investigator. But my hands moved without permission, picking up the journal and scanning the final lines.
He came to me again last night. The man from my dreams. He's so beautiful it hurts to look at him. He says he loves me. He says he's been waiting for me his whole life. Tonight he promised to take me somewhere we can be together forever. I can hardly wait.
My blood turned to ice water. The journal slipped from my numb fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud.
Sarah had been dreaming about him too. About the man who'd been haunting my sleep for ten years.
I bent to pick up the journal, my hands shaking. As I did, more entries caught my eye. Going back weeks. All talking about the same man. The same beautiful stranger who visited her dreams and made her feel special.
Made her feel loved.
Just like he'd done with the other six victims, I was willing to bet.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Someone was watching me. I could feel eyes on me, that familiar prickle of awareness that had followed me since I was sixteen. I turned slowly, scanning the empty hallway outside Sarah's room.
Nothing. Just the usual late-night hospital activity. Nurses making rounds, doctors checking charts. No mysterious strangers with perfect faces and dark eyes.
But the feeling didn't go away.
I clutched Sarah's journal and hurried toward the elevator, my heels clicking too loudly on the polished floors. Each step felt like a countdown. Like something was coming for me.
The elevator doors opened with a soft ding. I stepped inside and punched the button for the parking garage, watching the floor numbers light up as we descended. Three. Two. One.
Ground floor.
The doors slid open to reveal the underground parking garage. Dim lighting cast long shadows between the concrete pillars. My car was parked near the back, isolated from the few other vehicles.
I walked quickly, my footsteps echoing in the empty space. The journal felt heavy in my hands, like it contained more than just words. Like it contained proof of something I'd been trying to deny for years.
I was almost to my car when I heard it. A soft sound behind me, like a footstep that tried too hard to be quiet.
I spun around, my heart racing. "Hello? Is someone there?"
Silence. Nothing but shadows and the distant hum of fluorescent lights.
But I could swear I smelled something. Something that didn't belong in a hospital parking garage. Something that reminded me of midnight and expensive cologne and promises whispered in the dark.
I fumbled with my keys, desperate to get to my car. The lock finally clicked, and I threw myself into the driver's seat, slamming the door behind me. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the ignition.
As the engine roared to life, I caught a glimpse of movement in my rearview mirror. A figure standing between two cars, just at the edge of the light. Tall. Male. Watching me.
I floored the gas pedal and shot out of the parking garage like my life depended on it.
Because maybe it did.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the FBI field office, surrounded by case files and crime scene photos. Seven beautiful women, all between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-eight. All found dead in their beds with no obvious cause of death.
All with the same expression of peaceful satisfaction on their faces.
Marcus arrived with two cups of coffee and the look of a man who'd given up on sleep entirely. "Coroner's report on Sarah Mitchell just came in. Same as the others. Heart stopped for no apparent reason. No drugs in her system, no signs of trauma."
"What about the mark on her lips?"
He frowned. "What mark?"
I pulled out my phone and showed him the photo I'd taken at the hospital. "Look closely. Right here." I zoomed in on Sarah's mouth, where a faint discoloration was barely visible.
Marcus squinted at the screen. "I don't see anything."
Of course he didn't. I was starting to think I was the only one who could see the marks. Just like I was the only one who could see how they really died.
"Aria." Marcus set down his coffee and looked at me with concern. "When's the last time you slept? Really slept?"
I laughed, but it sounded hollow even to me. "What's sleep?"
"I'm serious. You look like hell. And you're seeing things that aren't there."
If only he knew how right he was. I'd been seeing things that weren't supposed to be there for most of my life. The difference was, now those things were killing people.
"I found something." I handed him Sarah's journal. "She'd been dreaming about a man for weeks. The same man, every night. She thought he was in love with her."
Marcus flipped through the pages, his expression growing more troubled with each entry. "This is... obsessive. She was completely fixated on this dream guy."
"Check the other victims' personal effects. I bet they all have similar records. Journals, texts to friends, something that shows they were all dreaming about the same man."
"You think someone's targeting women through their dreams?" Marcus looked skeptical. "That's not exactly how serial killers work, Aria."
But I knew it was possible. Because I'd been walking through dreams for ten years, and if I could do it, someone else could too.
Someone with much darker intentions.
"Just check," I said. "Please."
Marcus nodded, but I could see the worry in his eyes. He thought I was losing it. Maybe I was.
I spent the next hour going through the case files again, looking for connections I might have missed. All seven women had been young and attractive. All lived alone. All worked for companies in Chicago's financial district.
But there was something else. Something that made my blood run cold when I finally noticed it.
Three of the victims had worked for Blackthorne Industries.
I pulled up the company website on my laptop. Blackthorne Industries was one of Chicago's largest corporations, dealing in everything from real estate to technology. The CEO and founder was a man named Damien Blackthorne. Thirty-two years old, worth billions, and according to his photos, devastatingly handsome.
The kind of handsome that hurt to look at.
My finger hovered over the mouse as I stared at his picture on the screen. Dark hair, sharp features, eyes that seemed to look right through the camera. There was something familiar about him, something that made my skin crawl and my heart race at the same time.
I'd seen that face before. Not in real life, but somewhere else. Somewhere impossible.
In my dreams.
The same man who'd been watching me from the shadows for ten years. The same man who'd just kissed Sarah Mitchell to death.
Had a name now.
Damien Blackthorne.
My hands were shaking as I closed the laptop. Outside the office windows, Chicago was waking up to another day. People were starting their commutes, grabbing coffee, living their normal lives.
None of them knew that something was hunting in their dreams.
Something that looked like a fairy tale prince but killed like a nightmare.
And for some reason I couldn't understand, it had been watching me for half my life.
Waiting.
End of Chapter 1