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I want to object, insist that he take me back, but I don’t. Because he’s right. Instead of relying on the nurse, I should’ve made sure the doctor was there before I attempted to wake Mom. I was so eager to finally wake her I didn’t really consider her safety.

Just like when I’d made that threat about dreamwalking.

The guilt swamps me again, and I wallow in it until we land on a roof.

“We’re here.” Valerian opens the car doors.

I blink, looking around. “You took me to your place?”

“The car flies here when I don’t set a destination,” he says. “Do you want to go home?”

“No.” I climb out of the car on mushy legs. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He nods approvingly and climbs out behind me. Placing a hand on the small of my back, he herds me into the elevator, then into his apartment.

“Sit,” he orders when we get to his fancy-looking kitchen.

I comply as he uses an old-fashioned kettle to brew an extremely pleasant-smelling tea and places a cup in front of me.

“Want me to hygieia the handle I touched?” He walks over to the fridge, takes two sealed manna packets, and puts one in front of me.

“No, it’s fine.” I take the cup, the warmth seeping into my chilled fingers.

Valerian sits down at the table across from me. “You can have my bed tonight.” Seeing my eyes widen, he adds, “I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

I mindlessly take a sip of the tea. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep any time soon.”

He opens his manna packet. “How can I help?”

I open my packet and devour it as I contemplate the question. “I wish there were something that would make me forget I’m the worst pucking daughter in the world,” I finally mutter.

“There could be.” His tone is gentle. “I just got a message. The werewolf is asleep.”

I finish my food and gulp down the tea. “Good. I’m going in.”

He spears me with his intent gaze. “No, you’re not. Not alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going into the werewolf’s dreams with you,” he says. “But only if you’re sure you’re ready for it.”

“I’m ready. I just don’t understand.” I’m the dreamwalker, not him.

He sighs. “I’ll fall sleep. You’ll enter my dreams. Then, together, we’ll deal with Hans the werewolf.”

Well, if his goal was to distract me, he’s succeeded admirably—only not in the way he thinks. I find the idea of watching him sleep incredibly fascinating. Too fascinating, I’d say.

And that’s not all.

Getting access to his dreams? He’d refused me that when we first met, but I’ve been dying to snoop around in there. Hells yes, please. The only thing I’m fuzzy on is how much help he’d be in dealing with the werewolf, but if it means I get those other things, I’ll play along.

“Sure,” I say, my voice impressively even. “How about you go to sleep now?” Before you change your mind.

“Right.” He stands up.

“And please, use your own bedroom,” I say, recalling his earlier offer—along with the circumstances that prompted it.

The dark vise of guilt squeezes my chest again, but before I can give in to it, Valerian heads out of the kitchen, saying over his shoulder, “Fine. Let’s go to my bedroom.”

I’m glad his back is to me, so he can’t see the coral pink Pom on my wrist. I’ve been fantasizing about some version of “let’s go to my bedroom” for some time now.

I hurry after him, and when I step inside the room in question, I realize I’ve seen it before.

This is the lush bedroom with the giant bed covered by silk sheets he showed me in a couple of illusions. Only the rose petals are missing.

He takes off his shirt.

I forget how to speak for a second.

Without pause, he takes off the rest of his clothes. And I do mean all of his clothes.

I gulp, loudly.

He winks at me, then climbs into the bed and covers himself with a blanket.

Hey, no fair. You can’t show me that, then cover it up. I didn’t get the chance to properly file away all those hard, perfectly defined muscles in my memory banks. Or touch them. Or lick them.

Who am I kidding? If he let me lick anything, I’d probably chicken out on account of the thousands of different species of bacteria that live on skin.

Valerian’s breathing changes.

I creep on over.

Yep. He’s now under, but not yet in REM stage. Oh, well. I guess I have to do something not so unpleasant—watch his sleeping face. Those chiseled features are more relaxed than I’ve ever seen them, and that suits him. He looks like Prince Charming in repose.

Legs growing tired, I sit on the bed and keep watching. And watching. For some reason, I don’t get tired of it. I guess I’m one of those creepy people who like to watch someone sleep.

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