Page 29 of The Nightmare's Kiss

His shadowy tendrils lower me to the bed, where I lay boneless and hollowed out with pleasure. My Nightmare curls himself around me like a warm blanket, claws stroking delicately through my hair, and holds me until the morning light leaks through the window.

I blink and wake up alone in my bed, but his warmth lingers on my skin.

18

Chapter Eighteen

During the next couple of weeks, I fall into a routine. During the day, I attend work like normal, running through my instructions with as much unbiased precision as I can muster. I try to embrace the monotony of work and not think about my dreams. But one way or another, the Nightmare seems to always occupy my thoughts. The only exception is my lunch break every day, where Belle has started to join me and Ezra. His good humor slowly draws her out of her shell, and the three of us strike up an easy friendship.

And at night, in my dreams, I am visited by the same monster I’m studying during the day. Sometimes he talks to me in my bedroom. Other nights, he chases me down the hallways in a playful callback to our first terrifying encounter. Either way, we usually end up tangled together, breathless and sweaty, while he coaxes pleasure out of my body in ways I didn’t know possible. Teeth and claws and tongue and tentacles, and a cock that always fills me perfectly. Every morning I wake sweaty and sated and alone.

I know this situation is fucked up. Maybe I should be frightened when his huge, clawed hands pin me to the wall, or his sharp teeth prick my exposed throat. But I’m not.

Especially since he’s giving me the best orgasms of my life.

The only part I regret is that he is still trapped in his cell. The Nightmare doesn’t complain about it, and seems content by the freedom offered by our nighttime escapades, but my consternation only grows as I spend more time with him. I don’t care what the director or Dr. Wright say, the Nightmare is no mindless monster or vicious beast. He is a conscious being who does not deserve to be caged and experimented on. More than that, he is caring and compassionate and intelligent. Ifeelit whenever I’m with him.

“I wish there was a way for me to prove that you’re not just something,” I murmur as we lie tangled together one night, my body pleasantly wrapped up by his tendrils of shadows.

“It does not matter to me,” he says, nuzzling against the side of my neck. “They will never see me as anything but a monster.”

“That’s just because they’re not looking hard enough,” I grumble.

He pauses and sighs. “I must admit, I have given them little reason to see me for who I am. I have been…angry, in the past. I have made mistakes.”

The sorrow in his voice gives me pause and makes me remember those photographs Dr. Wright showed me when I first brought up the issue of the Nightmare’s sentience. I’ve tried to forget those horrible sights as I’ve grown closer to the Nightmare, but now a flicker of doubt wriggles its way into my heart. I turn onto my side so I can look at him face-to-face.

“They showed me some things,” I say, studying his expression. “Bodies. They said…said you killed people.”

Part of me hopes he will deny it. Even if it’s a lie, perhaps I could bring myself to believe it. But the Nightmare only nods, regret flickering behind his eyes. “As I said,” he whispers. “I was angry. And past experimenters were not as kind as you are.” His eyebrows draw together. “I attempted to escape. I was willing to do anything.” He looks away, shame evident in his shadowy features. “I hurt people. Killed them. Some of them had not harmed me; they were only in my way. I did not care.”

I draw in a shaky breath. It’s hard to hear…but I can’t entirely blame him. If I were trapped in a cell unfairly for decades, poked and prodded and tortured, unable to even communicate properly with the people keeping me there, wouldn’t I be desperate to escape? Willing to do horrible things for freedom?

I gently turn his face toward me.

“That still doesn’t make you a monster,” I murmur. “There are plenty of people who have done things just as bad, with far less excuses.” I press my forehead to his. “It doesn’t mean you deserve what’s being done to you.”

“Maybe,” he says like he doesn’t really believe it. Before I can argue, he continues, “But I have given up on the idea of escape.” He reaches with a shadowy hand and cups the back of my head. His palm is large enough to cradle my entire skull. “Especially now that I have my nights with you. This is enough. More than enough.”

The way he’s holding me rekindles the heat in my lower body. Goddamn, I’m not sure I’ll ever have enough of him, but I force myself to focus on the conversation at hand because it’s important. “But it’s not fair,” I say. “If you were free now, you wouldn’t hurt anyone, would you?”

“No,” he says. “I never did before I was trapped against my will. It is not in my nature. My kind—we do thrive on fear, on nightmares, but not real pain. Not death. There is nothing to gain from it.” He’s never spoken about his kind before, and it makes me so curious to know more, but I hold my tongue because it’s clear he has more to say. His expression is thoughtful, like he’s really considering my question. “And I understand humans now. I know that many are kind. I have no desire to hurt them.” He tilts his head, considering. “I mean, unless perhaps you wanted me to. Or if someone were to hurt you.” His expression darkens, and so does the room around us as his shadowy tendrils spread out over the bed. His body grows, claws sharpening and teeth lengthening as he snarls. “Then I would rip their head off of their body and—”

“Okay, okay, enough!” I nudge him playfully, and in an instant, he snaps back into his normal humanoid form. “Definitely don’t say that if the director or someone asks you,” I say. Though, honestly, it makes me feel pleased to hear. Some dark part of me is thrilled by the idea of having someone who will do anything to protect me.My own personal monster, I think fondly, even though I know he’s much more than that. “I think the people who work at the Facility should know what they’re doing. They should understand more about you. I think… I mean, if I explain it properly, they’d have to let you go, right? Or at least give you more freedom, more rights. They wouldn’t keep you locked up there if they knew what you were really like. They couldn’t.”

Even as I say it,wantingit to be true, cold doubt worms into my head. I’d be stupid to believe that people like Ethan or Dr. Ramsey would do the right thing. Maybe theydoknow. But…it can’t be true of everyone who works there, and it certainly can’t be true of the whole outside world. If they won’t do the right thing on principle, I’ll have to find a way to make them.

The Nightmare lets out a doubtful grumble, but I ignore it and push on. “And I think I can gather the evidence. What do you say?”

He is silent for several long seconds, and I wonder if he’s going to refuse, if he’s too jaded to feel the same spark of hope that I feel. But then, finally, he dips his chin in a nod. “If that is what you want,” he says.

He doesn’t sound confident. But that’s fine, all the more reason for me to prove him wrong. I can’t wait for the day I get to open his cell and meet him in the real world. But for now, I grin and playfully pin him down on the bed as I shift to straddle him.

“Good monster,” I tease, leaning down to kiss him. “Now…do that thing with the tentacles again.” I grin wickedly. “Please.”

This time, I’m going to do this right. I’m not going to leave any room for doubt. And dealing with people like Dr. Wright and Director Ramsey means gathering too much evidence for them to hand-wave away. Especially since I think they know, or at least suspect, the truth. It must be inconvenient, finding out that the monster you’ve been keeping captive for decades is actually a thinking, feeling, living being…but I’m not going to let them pretend they don’t realize exactly what they’re doing. If they’re confronted with cold, hard facts showing that the Nightmare is conscious and reasonable, they’ll have no choice but to listen to me, and to do something about this fucked-up situation.

Unfortunately, the rules of the building make it very hard for me to gather the evidence I need. I’m not authorized to take photos, or videos, or notes beyond the ones I turn in at the end of every day. And if I leave my notes overnight, I’m afraid that they’ll find them too early and try to stop me. They could simply bury the truth, fire me, and I’ll be left with nothing. I have no illusions about the type of people I’m dealing with here; this place has been shady from the start, everyone has lied to me, and I’m kicking myself for being complacent for so long. I will no longer be an accessory to their cruelty.

---