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A loud feminine laugh came from upstairs. Delilah. Wynter turned and—
A large hand snapped around her throat from behind. It yanked her awake . . . and yet it didn’t. She wasn’t awake. She was still in her living room. Dreaming. Choking.
Struggling, Wynter clawed at the hand gripping her neck. It held tight, squeezing hard. She grabbed the little finger, yanked it sideways, and let her body go limp. Her attacker stumbled, releasing her.
Wynter moved fast, launching herself forward while also scrambling to her feet. Wheezing with each breath, she sharply whirled . . . and found herself facing a grinning Saul.
Wynter shook her head, confused. “What did you do?”
He lifted a brow. “Isn’t it obvious? I hijacked your dream and trapped us both here. That is why you are feeling mentally aware. You are awake, yet stuck.”
Shit, shit, shit. She knew such things were possible, of course. She just wouldn’t have imagined he’d do this, considering . . . “This is a dangerous game you’re playing. People who die while trapped in a dream this way fall into a coma in the real world.”
“And they never wake up, I know. That’s why this is so perfect. You come back from the dead. But you may not so easily come back from a comatose state.”
Her stomach sank and twisted.
“Think of how furious Cain will be. For all his power, even he would not be able to wake you.”
She barely resisted the urge to bare her teeth at the gloating motherfucker.
“Your magick will not work in this realm, by the way. You cannot use it—not even to conjure your precious sword. Your monster cannot help you here either. Nor can your deity. And no Ancients will be coming to your rescue. It is just you and me.”
“I wouldn’t be feeling so pleased about that, if I were you.”
“Because I will not be able to tap into my own power here, you mean? Oh, I already know that. I am quite certain I can take you down without it.”
He shouldn’t be so certain, but she wouldn’t tip him off about that. He’d find out for himself soon enough. Wynter shrugged and said, “All right, let’s get it over—”
He charged, sneering. His meaty fist crashed into her temple.
Pain bloomed in her head, hot and piercing. Dots filled her vision, and she almost staggered. Holy mother of fuck that hurt.
He blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes.
Positively cheered by his bafflement, Wynter smiled. “Oh, you’re wondering why your enhanced strength didn’t clean my clock. The thing is . . . battles that happen in the dream realm are mental, not physical. Here, neither of us are stronger or faster than the other. Neither has better reflexes or more stamina. Right now, for all intents and purposes, you’re mortal. Me? I’m used to it. You? Not so much.” She balled up her hand and pitilessly slammed it into his Adam’s apple.
His head snapped back. A choked grunt seemed to get caught in his throat.
She snatched a nearby lamp and hurled it at his head. He reeled back, dodging it. Awkward asshole.
His eyes lit with bloodthirst, he pounced. So did she, utilizing every bit of the combat training she’d been given growing up. They fought no holds barred, exchanging blow after blow. And it quickly transpired that the bastard liked to go for the face.
She blocked and weaved, evading most strikes, but one of his hits landed. Hard. She hissed through her teeth as a massive pain exploded behind her cheekbone, making her wonder if he’d shattered it.
He gave her a smug smirk. “Pain is so much more vivid in dreams, isn’t it?”
It would seem so, because even slamming her arm up to block his own hurt like a mother.
They went at each other again, both merciless and determined. Both going for nothing less than the kill. She kept moving. Punching. Ducking. Swinging her hips to kick at the piece of shit.
There was a crack as she landed a mean-ass blow on his nose. The word “ fuck” seemed to explode out of him.
Wynter didn’t even have a moment to gloat at the break. A fist caught her eye, almost dazing her, and split the skin beneath her eyebrow.
Oh, she officially loathed this son of a bitch.
Putting a hand to his bleeding nose, he began tossing things at her—plants, books, ornaments. Glass smashed. Porcelain shattered. Paperbacks thudded to the floor.
