Page 71 of Sweet Nightmare

And somehow, even in the middle of all this pain, nothing has ever felt so right.

I take a deep breath, pulling the spicy, honey-and-leather scent of him deep inside me even as instinct has me sliding my arms around his waist.

In response, he pulls me even closer until my cheek rests against his heart.

It’s beating nearly as fast as mine.

I breathe him in again, memorizing this moment—memorizing Jude—as the coolness of his skin quenches just a tiny bit of the heat inside me. Because I know whatever he’s doing, it’s not nearly enough.

But right now, wrapped up tight next to Jude’s heart, I can think of a million worse places to die.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers as he lowers his head, and his cool breath brushes against my cheek. A shiver that has nothing to do with temperature works its way through me, and embarrassed, I start to pull away.

But Jude is immovable, his body sheltering as much as holding me close.

“Wait.” Again, his words brush over my skin. Again, shivers slide down my spine. “Trust me.”

And so, just for this one, beautiful, terrible moment, I do.

Minutes pass while Jude holds me, and at first the pain only gets worse. My lungs start to burn, and it grows harder—so much harder—to take a breath.

But Jude doesn’t let me go. Instead, he pulls me closer and slowly—so slowly I barely notice it at first—the conflagration inside me starts to ease.

It begins with just a sliver of ice sliding over my shoulders. But then it moves lower, circling my biceps, gliding over my back and ribs to my spine. From there the chill waterfalls into me, seeping through my skin and cascading down my veins and arteries to my heart, my lungs. My brain.

Inch by inch, cell by cell, the agony begins to drain.

And Jude holds me through it all, his strong, powerful body somehow—in some way—saving mine.

When I can finally breathe without total misery, I open my eyes. Then gasp at what I see.

Because Jude’s tattoos—those sexy, black, feathered bands—aren’t just on his skin anymore. Somehow, they’ve crept over to mine.

Now they’re sliding down my arms, twisting around my waist, swirling in the very air around us. And every place they touch, every brush of them against my body, lightens the heat and the pain a little more.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “What’s happening to us?”

But Jude doesn’t answer. He just bows his head and holds on to me like his life—not mine—depends on it.

And so I hold him back the same way, my fingers pressing into the lean, resilient muscles of his back as I burrow even more closely against him.

More time passes—seconds, minutes, I can’t begin to fathom a guess—as the venom continues to drain from me one slow drop at a time and my wounds continue to heal. And when it’s done, when I can finally breathe without bleeding, I whisper, “Thank you.”

My hair is falling out of the bun I stuck it in what feels like days ago, and it’s Jude’s turn to brush it out of my face. As he does, he bends his head so that our eyes—and our mouths—are aligned.

I breathe him in, the cheerful, lemon scent of his breath filling up the barren, empty places inside of me. And for the first time in a very long time, I can believe that Jude really is made of dreams.

Even before he whispers, “Don’t you know I could never exist in a world without you in it?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

STOP MESHING

WITH ME

His words gut me, and I want to ask him if he means them. And if he does, why is he always running in the opposite direction? Except there’s a part of me that’s afraid just bringing it up will send him running again. And I don’t want this to end. Not yet. Not when he feels so good—so right—pressed against me.

And not when, just for a moment, I can have a dream that doesn’t turn into a nightmare.

---