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Is this real? His eyes meet mine, and they glow with something warm and steady and entirely, unmistakably him.

“You had a nightmare, little ember?” His voice is low, gentle, and completely unfazed. The sound of it moves through me like heat, grounding me in this moment.

I lock onto his gaze, clinging to it the way I would a lifeline thrown overboard. My breathing is still ragged, my chest heaving, but the room begins to take shape around him, the familiar stone walls, the weight of my own body over his.

I nod once, unable to speak. His hand lifts slowly, giving me time to stop him if I choose, and caresses my face. His thumb brushes away the tear I didn’t feel fall.

Usually when the nightmares come, I wake alone, left to drown in them, to sit in the dark and pretend I’m not still shaking. No one has ever seen me like this. Not with my walls down. Not with my fear laid bare, sweat dripping down in puddles as I’m gasping for air. I’m humiliated and comforted at the same time.

“I can barely—”

“I know.” Roman cuts me off. His other hand begins to glow. “Come here.” I lean into him slightly. I can’t help myself.

He presses his palm gently to the side of my face, and I lean into the warmth spilling from his touch. Then his hand moves down my neck, then my chest. Each movement feels like it’s opening my airway. He returns his glowing hand to my face, lightly placing it on my cheek. Healing magic moves through me in a slow, steady wave, chasing the cold from my skin, loosening the tight fist around my lungs. My breathing evens. The tremor in my arms fades. The phantom weight of water, the claws, the voices, all of it recedes like a tide pulling back into the dark.

The terror that felt so real only seconds ago slips through my grasp, dissolving into something distant and unreachable. Roman lets out a soft cough.

I blink at him, dazed, my body still on top of his. “Did you just take away my nightmare?” I breathe, my voice rough with disbelief. I can remember the feeling of the dream, but not exactly what happened. And I always remember.

“In no world,” he says quietly, “are you allowed to be that afraid. In no world would I ever permit that kind of terror to live in your eyes.” His hand remains at my face, warm, steady, anchoring me here.

“I took away the fear. The panic. Slowed your heart. Opened your airway. There was saltwater inside your lungs.” I search his expression for a fracture, for anything that proves he’s mortal and not this impossible, composed being beneath me. I find nothing.

His other hand settles on my thigh and the contact sends a sharp current through me, awareness crashing back into my body all at once.

“Even with a dagger at my throat,” he adds, voice low, “I would still choose to save you.”

The words land hard with the realization that I’m still holding the blade. A dark red line slips from the shallow cut at his neck, trailing toward his collar. I wasn’t in control.

I pull the dagger back immediately, the motion abrupt, my breath catching as I wrench my face away from the glow of his hand. I stay on top of him, my body refusing to retreat, traitorous in the comfort it finds in his warmth.

“I could have killed you,” I say.

“But you didn’t,” he replies smoothly.

“It’s not smart to break into a slayer’s room,” I add, the bite in my voice weaker than I intend. “Especially not mine.”

I shake my head and toss the dagger onto the bed. It lands with a dull thud, his blood staining my sheets. My hands drag over my face, trying to clear the remnants of the dream, the shame and closeness of this moment.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, rare words to ever leave my lips. “I didn’t mean to cut you.” My gaze drops to his neck. The wound is still bleeding.

“Oh, that.” Roman’s hand glows again, and he presses it to his throat. The skin knits together beneath his touch, the wound erasing itself.

My gaze lifts to those molten amber eyes lit from within.

“It’s like it never happened,” he reassures me as I’m still unable to wrap my mind around the ancient power of a healer. Just then, Roman lets out a rumbling laugh.

“What the fuck is so funny?” I snap, finally finding my own voice again.

“It feels appropriate,” he says, entirely too amused, “that the first time we share a bed, you have a dagger at my throat.”

I roll my eyes, but heat creeps into my face anyway. I shift to move off him, to reclaim distance, control, but his hands come to my waist. They don’t force me, they just steady me.

“You don’t need to move,” he murmurs. “Your heartbeat is finally slowing. I can hear it.” And gods help me, my body listens. I stay put. He’s infuriating, but undeniably intoxicating.

I look down at him and then toward the door, the locks still secure from the inside.

“How did you even get in here?” I ask, sweeping the room. My eyes land on the open windows, and a weight settles in the pit of my stomach.