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Most nights, I typically startle awake the second the man with the scar shoots Creed.
Not tonight.
Tonight, some outside force kept me under as blood sprayed everywhere.
No matter how hard I fought against the zip ties keeping me bound, I couldn’t save Creed.All I could do was watch as his blood covered my face and hands, sobbing uncontrollably until my heart-wrenching cries woke me up.
I know it was only a dream.That it wasn’t real.
But I still feel the spray of his blood as it splattered all over me.Still see the red staining my hands.
I fear I always will.
Scalding water stings my skin as I continue scrubbing my hands clean, searing pain intensifying with each stroke.But I keep going until I can’t handle it anymore.With an anguished cry, I turn off the faucet and grab a towel.My hands tremble as I furiously wipe them.A part of me expects to see the white towel turn a crimson shade.
But it doesn’t.
Further proof it wasn’t real.
I pull my robe tighter around my body and make my way back to my bedroom, my eyes floating to the corner where Creed drew his final breath in my dream.I can’t stay here.Can’t get back in that bed.Not with the ghosts from my dream tormenting me.
Grabbing my cell off the nightstand, I send Creed a text asking if he’ll meet me at the gym.I half expect for him to be asleep and not see my message, since it’s only a little after four in the morning.Or for his message to go unread because my dreamwasreal and he’s dead.
Thankfully, his reply arrives almost immediately, telling me he’ll be there, offering me a sliver of comfort.
When I arrive at the fitness center less than ten minutes later, he’s already here, making me think he’d been at the palace when I texted him.It should have taken him close to a half-hour to get here from his house out in the suburbs.
Quietly dropping my bag on the floor, I’m careful not to immediately alert him to my presence.His body is tense and strong as he runs on the treadmill, sweat glistening on his toned arms and back that flexes as he increases his pace, eyes staring into the distance with an unbreakable focus and determination.
God, I miss seeing that same focus and determination in his expression as he makes love to me.
But we need to be smart.
Although, every night since the opera, I’ve hoped he’d sneak into my apartment.
He hasn’t, though.
While I understand why, it doesn’t make me miss falling asleep with his arms around me any less.
“Enjoying the show?”
The deep rumble of his voice snaps me back to the present, and I let my gaze drift up to meet his, a mischievous smirk curving his lips.In a heartbeat, all the unease I felt after waking from my dream vanishes.This is what I needed.A reminder of what’s real.
A reminder that Creed’s alive.
“Do you blame me?”I slowly saunter toward him as he hits the stop button on the machine, my body heating with every step.“It is quite…” I rake my eyes down his frame, my pulse kicking up, “tempting.”
He groans, his muscles tensing as he grips the side rails of the treadmill.“You’re making this bloody difficult, Esme.”When he returns his eyes to mine, they’re dark and dangerous, holding me captive.
“You’re the one who insists we keep things platonic.If it were up to me, you’d be in my bed every night.”
“If it were up to me, I’d be in your bed every night, too.”He steps off the treadmill, his body so close I can feel the heat radiating off of him.He lifts a hand, gently grazing my hairline, smoothing back a wild strand and sending a wave of need crashing through me.“It’s taken every ounce of resolve I possess to stay away.To refrain from sneaking into your bed.You have to know I’m always thinking about you.”His lips hover tantalizingly close to mine.“Always craving you.”
“Then have me, Creed,” I beg breathlessly.“I’m yours.”
“I plan on it.”His mouth skims mine in a tease of a kiss before he pulls back.“But not yet.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing down the sexual frustration that’s become worse every day.
