Chapter 4 - Nightmare

• My dreams are full of horrible visions.
• Blood covers my body.
• Tamara’s sweet little face in front of me, so close I can reach out and touch her cheek, but then suddenly she is far away at the end of a long, dark tunnel.
• “Ruby!” she screams. “Help me!”
• I’m running through the tunnel as fast as I can, but she only gets further away until I can no longer see or hear her. I spin around, looking for an exit, but when I turn around, there is only a brick wall behind me.
• I turn back toward where I was just facing.
• Another wall.
• I’m trapped.
• The walls come closer, squeezing me. I look up to see the moon far above me. It’s full, and I can hear the howls of wolves. I try to howl too, to call for them to help, but no sound comes out.
• When I wake, I’m covered in sweat.
• Where am I?
• The room is dark, lit only by a couple of candles on the bedside table and a fire burning in the fireplace.
• I can smell Atwood.
• A cold hand touches my forehead, and I flinch. As I flinch, pain shoots up my leg, and I squeeze my eyes shut again so hard that tears squeeze out.
• “Shh, it’s alright,” Atwood whispers from beside me. His touch eases some of my pain, and I’m able to open my eyes again to see him sitting in a chair next to me. His eyes have dark circles underneath as though he hasn’t slept in days, and his silky black hair hangs messily into his face. He’s still handsome, though.
• Atwood smiles at me. I try to speak, to ask what happened, but my throat is dry and nothing but a weak croak comes out.
• “Here, sit up,” he says softly, sliding his hand under my back to help me sit up. He props up some pillows behind me and leans me back a little bit so that I am comfortable, then brings a glass of water to my chapped lips. I hungrily take several large gulps. Atwood silently wipes away the dribbles of water on my chin with a handkerchief.
• “What happened?” I ask, finally able to speak.
• There is a long silence. Then, Atwood licks his lips and speaks.
• “Why did you run?”
• I’m taken aback by this question. I’ve only just woken, and he’s questioning me. I barely have time to think of a good answer that doesn’t involve slandering the King again.
• “Well…” I mutter, fiddling with the blanket, “you see, there’s this…”
• Atwood looks at me grimly. His jaw is clenched again in the same way it was in the car. He looks fearsome when he does this.
• “There’s this… what?” he asks impatiently.
• “I’m in love with someone else.”
• Atwood stands abruptly and glares down at me. I begin to shake and try to move away from him, but the pain is too much. When he sees how much pain I am in, however, he calms himself and sits back down. He takes my hand again and strokes my palm in circles with his index finger.
• “Is that true?” he asks.
• I gulp.
• “Yes,” I answer, trying to access my dazing ability to make him believe me. “There’s this boy from my clan. The Alpha, Cayden. We’ve loved each other since we were children.”
• Atwood runs his fingers through his long black hair and looks at me with those vibrant orange eyes. It’s now that I’m realizing that he sees right through my lies, and that my dazing ability does nothing to him.
• How foolish of me to even think that my abilities would work against the Lycan King!
• “Well, if it was only for a man,” Atwood says then with a soft smile, then stands to leave.
• Despite the fact that I love his looks and his scent, I’m relieved that he is leaving. Even when we kissed before, there was a huge part of me that was terrified of Atwood.
• Before he leaves, he looks at me one last time. There is condescension on his face, and in the firelight he looks even more terrifying.
• Then he asks another unexpected question.
• “When is your birthday?”
• My mind races. If he finds out that I’m nearly nineteen with no wolf, there’s no telling what he’ll do to me and Tamara. And besides, since my parents died years ago, I haven’t celebrated my birthday. I barely even remember the date.
• “It’s… three months from now,” I say. “I don’t remember the exact date.”
• Atwood frowns. He looks disappointed, and a little distressed.
• I shiver. Despite the fire, I feel cold. I think I’m shivering a bit out of fear, too, although I hope that Atwood doesn’t notice.
• Saying nothing, he crosses the room and opens an ornate trunk by the fireplace and pulls out a quilt. He comes to the bed and covers me, tucking me in gently in a show of empathy.
• “Get some rest,” Atwood says gently. He brushes a stray hair out of my eyes and lets his cool palm rest on my cheek for a few moments, and briefly, I can see a pang of concern flash across his otherwise grim expression. Then he pulls away. “Don’t try to daze me again,” he says, the darkness coming back to his face. I nod vehemently, biting my lip nervously.
• Wordlessly, Atwood turns and walks toward the door once again.
• Before he leaves, though, I have one burning question.
• “A-Atwood?” I ask softly. He stops in his tracks, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around.
• I gulp again.
• “Is… is my sister okay?”
• He pauses, and for a moment I’m expecting the worst. Tears prick at the backs of my eyes and I feel as though I will begin to sob at any moment.
• “She’s fine,” he says. “In worse condition than you, but she’ll pull through.”
• I let out a sigh of relief and sink into the bed. Before I can say anything else, Atwood’s tall frame disappears through the door and I am alone.
• As I drift back off to sleep, satisfied in knowing that my sister is going to be okay, I cannot help but feel comforted. The quilt smells like Atwood.