Page 55 of When Death Whispers

His clawed hand brushes over my hair, a dark, possessive touch.

“Sleep, Parker,” he murmurs. “I will claim your dreams as part of our bargain.”

22

The forest risesup around me before I’m fully aware I’ve left the waking world.

Fog coils at my ankles, thick and slow like it’s trying to anchor me here. Trees loom—tall, skeletal-like things with blackened bark and limbs that stretch like claws into a sky I can’t see.

The ground beneath my bare feet is damp, soft, the scent of wet earth and decay thick in the air. It’s the kind of smell that would normally be grounding for me—reminiscent of spring, of new beginnings. But here, it’s suffocating.

I know this place. I’ve been here before. In dreams. Or maybe nightmares.

Except this time… it doesn’t feel like either. It feels different. Sharper. Like the edges have been pulled into focus. Like I’m not just dreaming—I’ve beenbroughthere.

I glance down at my hands. Clench them into fists.

Everything feels solid. Real. The weight of the air, the chill in my bones, the way my breath clouds in front of me.

This doesn’t feel like a dream.

But it has to be.

…Right?

The last thing I remember is Hudson’s laugh still echoing in my ears. His warmth beside me on the couch. The tension in my chest loosening for the first time in what felt like forever.

Then the knock.

The groceries.

The shadows.

And the way they nearly stole him from me.

My stomach twists. Is he here too?

I spin, heart slamming against my ribs, eyes searching the mist that coils thick between the trees. Nothing. No movement. No sound.

Just the stillness. Just me.

The air hums with tension—like the forest itself is holding its breath.

I don’t belong here.

The thought barely forms before a voice rumbles through the mist, deep and rough like thunder rolling through mountains.

“On this, you and I are in agreement.”

I spin, searching for the source.

Rad moves through the fog easily. His massive form looms, broad shoulders rolling with each measured step, his horns curving wickedly from his head. His frost-blue eyes pierce through me, unreadable yet all-consuming.

“The Evergloom has always given me the creeps, as the human expression goes,” he muses. “But for some reason, your consciousness keeps dragging us back here. Tell me, my little Beholden, why is that?”

His voice shouldn’t make my stomach tighten like this.

I should focus on the fact that we’re in the same place as last time—the shadowy, nightmare-infested realm where my monster lives.

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