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However, even in her dreams she was the same woman she portrayed in life—sweet and astonishingly innocent. He was taken aback by how shy she was. Like she had never felt a man’s touch. She’d been hesitant to touch him, but once she had, she’d giggled. It was a beautiful sound. Not once in her dreams had she given him any reason to doubt her. He’d tried to use his powers of persuasion on her, to no avail. Either she was telling the truth, or she was the best liar he’d ever met. He’d gotten even the cleverest of men and women to talk before. But with Sorrel he found himself wanting only to listen to her ramble on about her travels around the world. She saw good in everyone and everything, even him. She said she could tell, deep within him, that he wanted to do the right thing. He wasn’t even sure what that was anymore.
Damn it, this woman, he thought while sinking back into his pillow. Why had she possessed him? He wanted to go to her now and apologize. He wanted to take her in his arms, in the flesh, and hold her close, if only to listen to the sound of her heart. However, he knew how dangerous that could be. And he would at least protect her physically from himself. But he could have her in her dreams, if she would allow him to. She’d been cautious, not letting it go too far.
He wrestled with himself over whether or not to invade her dreams. He knew it wasn’t right, yet, she called to him. He wasn’t hurting her, he rationalized. Or was he? The devastating pain in her eyes flashed in his mind. He knew she felt the unexplainable connection between them too. It made him want to go to her even more. One more time, he lied to himself.
Eric closed his eyes and focused on her. The way her raven hair bounced as she walked and the way her eyes penetrated his own. The feel of her hand. For him, finding her dreams was like walking down a hall with many doors, feeling his way toward the one that would lead to Sorrel. Of course, hers was pink. She seemed obsessed with the color. But somehow it suited her. He ran a hand down her door, telling himself one more time that he shouldn’t. But before he knew it, he was opening it. At first, just a crack.
There she was, in a vineyard again, wearing a white cotton dress that showed off every curve she was graced with. The way the sun shone upon her made her look more angelic than usual. An insatiable desire filled him. But before his appetites overtook him, he wondered why she was always dreaming about the vineyard. Every night he’d found her there, walking with a man she never let him see. A man he was jealous as hell of. He wanted to be the one holding her hand and sharing confidences with her. But his secrets would frighten her. He was sure if she knew who he really was, and what he was capable of, she would change her tune about the good she felt in him, even if it was only in her dreams.
Once Eric stepped closer and shut the door, Sorrel detected his presence almost instantly. As soon as she did, she was no longer in the vineyard. They were now standing on the stone bridge that spanned the river near her bakery. The man whom she obviously cared for was gone too. It was probably a good thing; Eric wanted to beat him to a pulp.
At first Sorrel smiled at him, her eyes alight, but that quickly turned to a scowl. She turned from him and walked in the opposite direction. He immediately chased after her. “Sorrel, wait.”
“Leave me alone,” she begged.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t. He easily caught up to her and gently took her hand. He could tell she was fighting within herself about whether she should pull away.
“Please, don’t go,” he pleaded.
“Why do I keep dreaming about you?” She desperately wanted to know.
He pulled her closer. “Because you want to.” That was true. His ability was totally dependent on the willingness of the participant, for lack of a better word.
“No, I don’t.” She was trying to convince herself.
“Sorrel.” He brushed her hair back. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”
“You’re just saying that because this is a dream. I should wake up.”
“Don’t.” He panicked. “Not yet.” He craved all the time with her he could get, even if it wasn’t real. But compared to his real life, he would take this imitation any day of the week. “I truly am sorry.” For the first time in a long time, he meant it.
“Then you won’t write your story?”
