Page 45 of Top Shelf

And the last thing I need is Ronan Sterling becoming real.

11

WREN

The dream beginslike it always does.

Darkness.

Then sound.

The shuffle of gravel beneath shoes. A laugh, slurred and wrong. Metal clattering. Music from a party fading behind me. Muffled. Distant. Then?—

Pain.

The memory slams into me like a freight train. Cold air against my skin. The sting of tears in my eyes. My voice caught in my throat like a scream that never made it out.

I twist, kick, fight, but my limbs are heavy. Disconnected. Sluggish.

Hands grip me—too many. Or maybe just one. I can’t tell. Can’t seem to keep my thoughts straight. Faces blur and blend. Shadows. Movement. A flash of light. The clatter of a rolling bottle. Fingers in my hair. On my arms. My legs.

Fear swallows me whole. It pulls me under. Consumes me.

Some deep, primal part of my mind knows what is happening, even if my conscious self can’t comprehend it.

My eyes are squeezed tightly shut now. My body is jostled. There’s a tearing sensation.

I know what comes next.

I brace for it. The pain—like nothing I’ve ever felt before. The feeling that something vital is being taken from me. Something I can’t ever get back.

Except this time…the dream shifts.

The terror ebbs like a tide. The shadows pull back.

A voice cuts through the chaos.

Low, firm, yet familiar.

“I’ve got you.”

Ronan.

I hear it as clear as if he’s standing beside me now. His tone isn’t cold. Not threatening. It’s…calming. A tether in the storm.

Arms lift me—strong and steady. A shirt is pulled over my head. Warmth sinks into my frozen skin. I can still feel the sting of pain, the dull ache of bruises, but it’s diminished. Wrapped in cotton.

Fingers brush the side of my face. A whisper I can’t quite catch. The scent of leather and soap.

Blue eyes appear in my hazy vision, swimming in and out. They’ve always looked harsh and unrelenting, but now, they are wide with concern. Softened around the edges.

I’d never seen them before that night, but I recognize them instantly as Silas’s. They latch on to mine, a lifeline in the midst of a tsunami.

I don’t let go. I can’t.

Not until I’m jostled, my face pressed against a warm, shirtless chest. Heat engulfs me, warming my face, and the steady beat of a heart calms my racing one. Grounds me in a way nothing else has been able to.

Lines of black ink break up the planes of pale skin that arepressed against my cheek. A tattoo that I can’t make out. Somehow, I know it’s Lucian holding me.