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There are a hundred and one little subtleties and differences each time, but two key different versions.
In the first, after all the fury and spectacle at my parents’ house, he turns utterly sweet the moment he has me alone.
“You made a sacred deal,” he whispers, as he unzips my dress. In these fantasies, I’m wearing the pink dress he put me in. “You need to go through with it, but I’m not the monster you believe. Let me make it good for you.”
I look at him, and all the fear and the anger drains away. All I can see is the beauty of his face, and, as he unbuttons his shirt, the muscles of his chest. In my imagination and in my bed, I’m melting inside.
He scoops me up, lays me down on the four-poster bed, and kisses me from my neck to my hip bones, taking his time, while I sigh and whisper his name.
Eventually, his kisses lead him to my thighs. He settles down between them and gets to work with his tongue. I’m gasping within seconds, screaming in pleasure within minutes.
“I told you I’m not a monster,” he whispers, as I come from his ministrations.
Then he slips inside me and slides in and out, agonisingly gently, as I arch my back and push up against him. We come in unison, and strands of my magic slip into him as his slip into me.
I imagine we kiss and cuddle afterwards, but I always finish myself off before the film in my head gets that far.
The second version couldn’t be more different.
“We have a deal,” he growls, picking me up and throwing me face down on the bed.
“Please,” I gasp, and it’s not clear to me or to him whether I’m pleading for mercy or demanding satisfaction.
He tears the dress off me with some combination of force and magic.
With one hand, he holds my wrists together, pinning me to the bed. The other slides between my legs.
“Surprisingly wet for someone who’s doing this under sufferance,” he says with a laugh, rubbing me harshly.
I cry out with a mixture of pleasure and pain, then without further preamble, he enters me from behind. I’m pinioned under the weight of his muscle, but I still push back and meet his thrusts as far as I can. I still feel the pleasure build.
It ends the same as the other version. In the dream, we come in unison, our magic flowing from one to the other, and in my bed, in real life, my fingers move faster, and I come with a muffled cry.
I’m never sure which of the two versions makes me feel the guiltiest. And I don’t understand where they come from. A way of processing the trauma of that night? A side effect of the lien he put on me? Or just proof that my mind is a twisted place? Either way, it’s ruined me for other men. No flesh and blood date can make me feel like he does in my fantasies.
PART2
SEVEN
MANNITH, YORKSHIRE—PRESENT DAY
On the first day of the trial, I slide into my tailored black skirt suit like I’m putting on chainmail. I plait my hair, as I always do for court. I’m so practised at that style that the desire to use magic barely even surfaces.
I read the brief one more time, trying to focus on my proposed lines of questioning, and not the fact that my brother’s freedom is at stake or that I might need to face the man of both my nightmares and fantasies.
The prosecution have lots of consistent, reliable witnesses who claim to have seen Brendan at various key points on the evening of the murder. It’s not yet clear whether they are Thornber acolytes or some combination of bribed, blackmailed, and bewitched. I won’t be able to tell until I see them in court. Anyone who’s in the Thornbers’ inner circle will sport a distinctive heart and star tattoo behind the ear. The bribed and blackmailed will look scared. The mesmerised will sound utterly confident, but wear a glazed expression.
Or they could all be ordinary people who are telling the truth and Bren’s lying to you,my subconscious chimes in.
At nine, there’s a knock on my door. “Are you ready, Kate?”
I smile at Connor’s voice. I’ve spent the days since my arrival hiding away in The Windmill, working on the case, pausing only for solitary meals in the bar, walks round town to focus my mind, and online workouts in my room. He’s been lurking in the pub all week, a comforting but unobtrusive presence.
The rest of the family have been constantly trying to get me to come round to the house or meet them at a restaurant or a club, but I’ve kept telling them I need to concentrate and keep emotions out of this.
“Coming.” I slick on my favourite bright red lipstick again, then head out to the corridor.
Connor takes the wheelie suitcase containing my files with one hand and my arm with the other, and leads me to his car. Even if he knew I was a practitioner, we’d still have to take a car today. You can’t magically travel through the Dome in either direction.
