The dream came in fragments. Violence and shadow.
Marcus Walsh on his knees. But his face kept changing. Becoming her mother's. Then Sarah's. Then her own. The sound of the gunshot echoed. Like thunder in a cathedral. Kael's voice, cold and clinical. "Nothing personal. Just business."
But in the nightmare, she wasn't hidden. She was standing in the circle. Wearing a white dress that glowed against the darkness. When Kael raised the gun this time, it was pointed at her heart.
"You've seen too much, angel."
She tried to run. Her feet were cement blocks. Tried to scream. Her voice belonged to someone else. Could only watch. Those beautiful, terrible dark eyes stared down the barrel. The weapon grew larger and larger until—
Elara bolted upright. A scream tore through the silk-wrapped silence.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Violently. Sweat soaked her expensive pajamas. A gift from her captor. Her hands shook. Struggling to separate dream from reality.
Just a nightmare. You're safe. You're in the penthouse.
"Easy."
The voice came from the darkness near the window. Calm. Utterly unsurprised by her terror. A shadow detached itself from the chair. She hadn't noticed him. Hadn't heard the door. Hadn't felt the weight of his attention. Settling over her sleeping form.
He's been watching me. How long?
"Kael?" Her voice was raw. Hoarse from screaming.
"I'm here." He didn't move. Didn't reach for a light. Didn't offer comfort. Just sat motionless. A statue carved from shadows and starlight.
City lights painted him in gold and black. Turning his face into a museum piece. Beautiful. Dangerous.
How long has he been sitting there?
"You were having a nightmare." His voice was clinical. A problem to be solved. "Quite vivid. From the sound of it."
The sound of it. What did I say?
"I'm fine." A lie. She pulled the silk sheets to her chin. A shield.
"Are you?" He leaned forward. His profile sharp in the dim light. Cheekbones. Jawline. Eyes that absorbed light. "You've been talking. For twenty minutes."
Twenty minutes. He listened for twenty minutes.
"It was just a dream."
"About the alley." Not a question. "About Marcus Walsh."
Ice water flooded her veins. How does he know?
"You mentioned his name. Several times." His voice was soft as velvet. Dangerous as a blade. "Along with commentary. Guns. White dresses. The inevitability of death."
Heat crawled up her neck. "I don't remember."
"Don't you?" He stood with fluid grace. A predator. "You also said 'please don't.' Quite frequently. And 'I'm sorry.' A dozen times."
God. What secrets did I spill?
"I don't control what I say when I'm asleep."
"No." He moved to the window. A fallen angel in an expensive suit. "Which makes sleep talk so illuminating. The subconscious rarely lies."
What does your subconscious say?
"What were you dreaming about, Elara?"
The question hung between them. A challenge. She could lie. Or tell the truth.
"You." She whispered it. Before she could stop herself.
The word fell into the silence. A stone in still water.
"Me." He repeated it. Something shifted in his voice. Surprise? Satisfaction.
"You asked."
"I did." He turned. His expression unreadable. "Most people lie. They invent safe nightmares. Falling. Faceless strangers."
Not nightmares about execution.
"But you dream about me." He moved back to the chair. Silent steps. "Specifically about me hurting you."
Hurting me. Killing me.
"It wasn't..." She struggled for words. "It wasn't exactly you. It was the idea of you."
"The idea of me." His smile was sharp as winter wind. "And what idea would that be?"
That you're a killer. That this cage is love. That you'll get bored.
"That you're dangerous," she said.
"I am dangerous." He settled back. He wasn't leaving. "But not to you."
Not to me. Tell that to my subconscious.
"Then why am I having nightmares about you killing me?"
"Because," his voice dropped to a whisper. Bypassing her mind. Going straight to her nerves. "You're afraid of something far worse than death."
What could be worse?
"You're afraid of disappearing." Those dark eyes studied her. A fascinating specimen. "Not physically. You know I need you alive. But disappearing as a person. Losing yourself. Forgetting who you were."
The words hit her. They were true. Horribly true.
How does he see through me?
"You're afraid," he leaned forward. Psychological torture. "That I'm going to hollow you out. Until there's nothing left. Just the shape I want you to fill."
Stop.
"And the most terrifying part," he continued relentlessly. "Is that you're beginning to want it. To crave the simplicity. Of being exactly what I need."
No. That's not...
But she remembered the comfort. Under his scrutiny. The traitorous part that wanted to be worthy.
Oh God. He's right.
"The nightmare will stop." Something almost gentle in his tone. "Once you accept that fighting me is like fighting gravity. Exhausting. Pointless. Self-destructive."
Fighting gravity. Surrendering is like falling.
"I'm not fighting you." Weakly.
"Aren't you?" He stood. Moved to the foot of her bed. Graceful. Threatening. "Every instinct tells you to run. To resist. To keep a core of yourself."
Yes. Because that's what sane people do.
"Those instincts are wrong." A patient teacher. "Evolutionary artifacts. From a time when independence meant survival."
And now?
"Now," he said, reading her thoughts. "Survival means adaptation. Recognizing a force more powerful than yourself. Learning to work with it."
A force. A natural disaster.
He moved closer. Close enough to see the gold in his eyes. To smell his cologne. Whiskey.
"You're not my prisoner, Elara." Softly. "You're my treasure. Treasures are protected. Cherished. Kept safe."
Including from their own free will.
"What if I don't want to be treasure?" A whisper.
Something flickered on his face. Surprise? Pain.
"What you want," his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Is irrelevant. What matters is what you need. You need someone strong enough. To make the choices your conscience won't let you make."
Like selling myself.
"The nightmare will stop." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. Devastating gentleness. "Once you understand. I'm not the villain in your story."
Then what are you?
His thumb traced her cheekbone. Tender. Obscene.
"I'm the one who keeps the real monsters away." A murmur. "The poverty. The desperation. The crushing weight of choices."
By becoming the monster.
She didn't say it. Couldn't. A traitorous part was beginning to believe him.
This is how it happens.
"Sleep." A soft command. His hand fell away. "I'll be right here."
That's what I'm afraid of.
But she felt oddly comforted. His presence overpowered the nightmare. His attention. His protection. His certainty.
"Nothing in this world can harm you while I'm here." A quiet benediction.
The words should have been comforting. A promise of safety.
Instead, they sounded like a threat.
Looking at his silhouette. Beautiful. Terrible. Unwavering.
She realized he meant it literally. Nothing would be allowed to harm her.
Nothing.
Not his enemies. Not circumstance. Not poverty.
And not her own desire for freedom.
He's protecting me from my own will.
Sleep pulled her under. The last thing she saw was his profile. Sharp. Perfect. Motionless.
Nothing in this world can harm you while I'm here.
The promise followed her into darkness. Transforming. Less like protection. More like a life sentence. In the most beautiful prison ever built.