My face is wet. I touch my cheek, confused.
“You were having a nightmare,” he says, his brow furrowing.
Perfect. Crying in my sleep. Exactly what I wanted the Englishman to see.
And then I remember the first part of the dream. My eyes drop to Samson’s lips, and I swallow dryly.
“I’m fine,” I say brusquely, shifting away.
But he catches my hand. “You’re so cold.” His thumb rubs over my knuckles, concern evident across his features.
“I’m fine.” I snatch my hand away, too aware of how accurately my brain conjured up the way his skin would feel against mine.
“You’re not getting up, are you?” Samson leans over, grabbing his blanket and pulling it closer to mine. It’s not exactly like we’re sharing space, but he settles in near enough that I cannot reasonably move awaywithout being rude.
I don’t care about being rude. I start to gather up my own blanket.
“Don’t be foolish,” Samson says, and I freeze in place. “It’s too cold.”
True enough. Plus, the shift in temperature has caused a thick mist to settle over the moor. It would be dangerous to leave now before the morning sun has a chance to burn some of the haze away.
“I’m not going to sleep more,” I state, my voice petulant and stubborn. Simply wonderful. I cry in my sleep and act like a child when I awake. What a brilliant opinion of me this Englishman must have.
“We can talk,” Samson offers. “I’m rather awake myself.”
“I don’t want to talk either,” I grumble. Why do I do this to myself? All I want to do is punch something.
“Well, you might not want to talk now, but you sure were talkative in your sleep.”
My heart thuds at the memory—my father, Samson dying. And worse, before that, the groan I made when Dream Samson rubbed my shoulders, kissed my neck, squeezed my hips with clear longing and desire…
“In fact,” Samson says, chest puffed up, “pretty sure I heard you say my name.”
“You’re right, I did,” I snap, hoping he cannot see the flare of red surely staining my cheeks. “It was a horrible nightmare.”
Samson snorts, but part of him looks worried; I was clearly thrashing around, and there is some truth to my statement.
“I dreamt about my father,” I say sullenly. There’s a bit of truth I didn’t intend to put into words.
“Well, if he’s anything like my father, then ‘horrible nightmare’ is accurate.”
“I assure you, my father is worse.”
Samson looks more serious than I’ve ever seen him. “I assure you, mine is.”
This boy has no idea what a competitive streak I have. “My father left my mother before I was born.”
“Same,” he answers pertly.
“All he ever does is drink and dance in court.” The Seelie Court, mind, but Samson doesn’t have to know that.
“So does my father.”
Oh, that smug look. “If he ever thinks about me—and it’s rare that he does—it’s just to give me a task or use me like a tool.”
“Likewise.” Samson smirks as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“Fine,” I bite off. “You win.” I can’t exactly explain all the ways my father’s an arsehole, not unless I want to inform this poor human about the fae he likely has no idea exist.
