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“Did you sleep better last night?”
He probably thought the concussion would’ve kept me unconscious for days.
“Not really,” I said, munching into a cracker.
“Well, if you finish all of your food, I have something that can help you sleep,” he purred. His eyes were bright, tinged with something I saw in Gray Eyes—pure lust.
Choking on the crumbs, the rest of the cracker scraped down my throat sideways. I wheezed, trying to recover. Logan wasn’t the type of man that pretended. He never seemed shy.
I was in way over my head.
He probably assumed my eagerness to tag along was me coming on to him.
He wasn’t all wrong.
He swirled a bottle of dark amber liquid and cocked his head to the side. “How about some whiskey and chocolate?” His eyes sparked with a dare.
“Yes, to the chocolate. But uhh… the whiskey might be a little too adventurous.”
Logan shrugged and dug his fork into what looked like some type of ravioli.
I stopped drinking about two years ago. The alcohol had started to make the nightmares worse, somehow more tangible. After one glass of merlot, I would feel warm and light, accidentally drifting off to sleep, and the dreams would crash into my mind so vividly, it hurt. The images of Gray Eyes sharpened to a point of such overwhelming intensity that I thought I could reach out and touch him once I was awake. The alcohol seemed to be the culprit, so I had stopped drinking altogether.
Then a few months later, the dreams returned, muted versions of their previous selves. Now nothing mattered, awake or asleep. The dreams came, and I couldn’t stop them.
I sipped at my stew until the container was empty and then ate the rest of my crackers. I brushed off my hands.
If I was trying to figure out what these dreams really were, then the more clarity, the better. That is, if my dreams weren’t causing the creatures.
Screw it.
If I’m going to dream, might as well make it worth it.
“You know what, I changed my mind. I think I’m feeling adventurous.”
