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7
MIA
I dream of Emrys and Jason.
Is it normal to be aware that you’re dreaming while you’re doing it? It’s as if I’m an observer, standing in a corner, as if someone called my name and I appeared inside their room like a ghostly guest.
More like a voyeur, actually, but it’s not like I have any control over it. Just like in a dream, my body won’t respond to me. All I can do is watch—gaze on them as they talk, coming closer and closer together. Jason sinks down to the floor, Emrys gets on his knees, Jason shakes his head.
I can’t hear what they’re saying. Who muted the sound? Their lips move, their expressions change. Emrys looks smug. Then angry.
Jason looks scared. Then intrigued.
I’m intrigued, too. I try to come out of my corner but I can’t move. My heart is hammering inside my chest. I try to call out their names but no sound emerges from my lips.
Then Jason sits on the edge of the bed.
And pulls his T-shirt off.
Okay, wait. Things are getting interesting. Thanks for the invite, boys. My dream self would love to run her hands over those tight abs, that lickable six-pack, those defined pecs, those sculpted biceps.
When he yanks down his pants and underwear, when the flushed, hard length of his cock rises between his legs, a jolt of lust goes through me all the way—from my dream self to my dreaming self. I’m sure about it.
And yet I’m still trapped in my corner, only able to observe as Emrys gazes up at Jason and then with a graceful bow of his head goes down on him, closing his lips around Jason’s cock.
His low moan echoes in my head, and I jolt awake, my body too hot, an ache between my legs.
I sit up, waiting for my pulse to slow, sweat drying on my skin. The images are so real. I could swear I was there, with them, in Emrys’ room—and that reminds me… I’d dreamed of Emrys and Ashton the previous night. It’s coming back to me now. They were on a bed, and Emrys… My face heats up more. Emrys went down on Ashton, too.
Just a dream, I think, and swing my legs off the bed. Nothing more. A fantasy.
But I can sense my magic twanging, like a plucked chord, and I know, I feel that it’s the link I have to the boys. It’s not as strong as it is with Ashton and Sindri, but it’s strong enough to connect me to what they’re doing…
But if that’s true, then is this real? Not a dream?
Should I be upset? Jealous?
No. A slow smile spreads over my face. They’re taking care of each other. Fighting the spell. Coming to care for each other.
And they called for me through our link, through our magic. They want me there, with them.
Ophelia can’t stop us, no matter how hard she tries.
Leaving a message for Sindri proves complicated. I mean, I’m not even sure his message had been consciously drawn for me to see, that little doodle in the margin of his art pad—and Ophelia will be waiting for him outside.
Thankfully, I have an excuse to go talk to him before Art class begins.
He’s seated at the back of the classroom, his dark head bowed, the blue in his hair catching the light from the windows facing the trees and the lake. He has his art supplies spread in front of him but his hands are flat on the desk. It’s as if he’s a million miles away.
He lifts his gaze as I approach his desk. The girls sitting behind me giggle, and I overhear the words “Slut” and “Witch” directed at me. I ignore them.
“We need to finish our joint project if we want to pass this class,” I tell him as curtly and business-like as I can manage. “Have you made a drawing of me?”
The girls behind me fall silent.
He blinks, straight black lashes blanketing, then revealing those star-bright eyes. “A drawing of you?”
“Yes, remember? I drew you and you need to draw me. Tit-for-tat. You’re the one who insisted we should work on this together, and the project is overdue. Have you forgotten?”
