Page 22 of The Imaginary Friend's Obsession

I bite my lip. “So dashing,” I say, shy all of a sudden.

“I live to serve,” he says, eyes crinkled behind the mask.

“Oh yeah?” I grin and shut my eyes, concentrating. When I open them again, his old clothes have shifted into a suit and bowtie, like an old-fashioned butler.

Dorian laughs, delighted, as I take his hand. He lifts me to my feet with ease and places the other hand on my hip. His warmth bleeds through his glove and my skirt, and my stomach swoops.

Dorian leads me in a slow waltz around the room to the sound of the record player. My steps are clumsy, but he is careful and sure-footed as he leads me. When one of my socks slips on a floorboard, I start to fall; he catches me and turns it into a graceful dip.

I giggle, breathless as he lifts me again. I’m as light as a feather in his arms. While plenty of other people make me feel small in a frightening way, with Dorian I know I’m safe.

“Maybe you’re right. You are kind of like a real-life prince,” I say.

He stops at my words, eyes turning sad. His gloved hand slips free of mine.

“I’m not, though,” he says. “I’m more of a monster.”

“What?” I clutch him tighter as he tries to pull away from me. “Why would you say that? You’re not—”

The thump of angry footsteps drifts up from the hallway below the attic and climbs up the ladder to where we are. Dorian pulls me closer, his eyes narrowing as he glares toward the opening hatch. But even as his shoulders and jaw stiffen, he trembles against me.

“Go,” I whisper.

“Daisy…”

“There’s nothing you can do. Go,” I urge.

Still, he stays. One hand clinging to my shoulder, the other balled into a fist at his side.

When my father reaches the top of the ladder, Dorian steps in front of him. He looks so small in comparison, yet still he stands with his chin up.

But my father steps right through him. He pauses, shivers faintly, and then advances on me.

“What did I tell you about coming up here?” My father’s voice is low, dangerous, and slurred.

I hang my head.

“I want to wake up now, Ezra,” I say.

“When I snap my fingers, you’re back in the room with me,” his voice says from somewhere behind me.

My father steps closer, his face like a storm cloud. “And what did I tell you about talking to people who aren’t real?”

“Three… two… one…”

My father bends down to grab my discarded book off the floor and rips the cover off. I flinch back, but he grabs my hand before I can retreat.

Dorian yells and swings a fist at him, but it goes through my father’s torso. His grip tightens.

Snap.

I blink, and I’m back in my body at the MRF. I lift a hand and wipe away a tear before it can fall. When I lower it again, I study my fingers, the crook in my pinky and ring finger where my father grabbed me in that memory.

“Are you all right?” Ezra asks. “What did you see?”

I drop my eyes to my lap. It’s hard to speak about, but I’ve spent so long keeping it bottled up that I find Iwantto. I need to.

I walk over to the viewing window. Dorian’s cell is still empty, but I know he’s there.

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