Page 40 of Cruel Riches

I needed to know who he was. Or she.

I surged forward. “Tell me your name,” I whispered, reaching for the doorknob so I could push it open all the way and reveal the identity of the shadowy person.

The scene changed before I could catch a glimpse of a face. I was the shadow person now.

I looked in a mirror, but there was nothing but darkness in the reflection. Then I tried to look down at myself, and I saw that I was now a monster with knives for hands.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, looking up to see a frightened girl in the hall. “I’m so sorry, but I have to kill you.”

Then there was blood, so much blood, and awful howls of agony.

My eyes snapped open as a gasp escaped my mouth. I hated those dreams; the dark and terrible ones where I was the Blackthorne Butcher. The worst part was that I never knew who I was when it was happening, because I didn’t know who the killer was in real life. The information simply wasn’t available for my subconscious to construct nightmares around, so I was always a shadowy monster instead.

My limbs felt heavy as I lay in the strange no-man’s-land between sleep and consciousness. My vision was blurry, too, and my head was thick with the kind of fog that I usually only felt after nights of serious drinking.

Worst of all, the room was spinning like crazy, and rainbow bursts of color were suddenly appearing all over the edges of my vision. There was also a shadow somewhere near my bed, dancing around, and a low voice echoed from somewhere in the background. It was a familiar voice, chuckling and murmuring.

I blinked rapidly.

I didn’t drink that much at the party, did I? Enough to be a little tipsy, sure, but not enough to hallucinate like this two or three hours later. Either my drinks were spiked with some sort of drug earlier—one which only just set in—or I hadn’t really woken up and this was just another dream.

I closed my eyes and opened them again to see that my dorm ceiling had turned into a starry night sky.

Definitely a dream.

A dream in which I was paralyzed.

It had just occurred to me that I couldn’t move my arms or legs. All I could do was open and close my eyes and mouth. “Stop,” I whispered to myself. “Wake up.”

It didn’t work. I remained trapped in the near-motionless state.

The shadow on the edge of my vision moved again, and I became aware of a presence in the room. My breathing turned shallower as the seconds ticked by, and on top of those harsh, nervous sounds, I could hear the slow, steady thrum of another human’s breath.

Monster,was all I could think as I lay there, heart beating so hard I could hear it thudding in my chest. It came back.

I blinked again, and then I saw that the shadowy figure was Nate. His angular features were lit by the starry canopy that used to be my bedroom ceiling.

“Oh. It’s you,” I murmured. “How long have you been here?”

“Always,” he muttered. He was at my side now, head leaning over mine. “I’m always watching you, Alexis.”

In the bizarre, colorful dream state, that seemed like a perfectly acceptable answer.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Why can I see you?”

“I decided I wasn’t done with you,” he said, pulling my blankets back to expose me to the chilly night air. “I wanted to see that pretty pussy of yours again.”

“I know you aren’t real.”

Nate’s hands were at my hips now, hooking in the sides of my pajama bottoms. “Not real?” he replied. His voice was low and husky with a tinge of amusement.

“You’re just part of the dream,” I whispered, still unable to move. “The real Nate couldn’t get in here without a key.”

“I can do whatever I want.” My pajama bottoms were gone now, and Nate’s hands were pushing my legs apart.

He mistook my inability to move or stop him as acceptance. “You’ve already learned not to fight me,” he muttered. “I wish you would, though. You know it only makes me want it more.”

A warmth was spreading from my head to my toes. I wished I wasn’t paralyzed, because I wanted to dance. To spin. To twirl.

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