Lydia was suffering from a nightmare.
Aon knew this, quite simply, for he was the one who put it there.
She lay, her blonde hair splayed like curls of light against black satin, her brows drawn in fitful slumber. He sat on the edge of her bed, a phantom come to plague her. He smiled behind his mask.
Yesterday, she had come to his library and put books away as requested. She was a curious, unflinchingly inquisitive creature. She peppered him with questions, and he wondered if she had not been meant to fall to the House of Words.
Indeed, he was glad she fell to none of the colors, if it meant they could play this delightful game that was quickly evolving between them. It was some of the most fun he could remember having in a very long time. Not for the slightest of reasons being that she, despite her best interests and her best intentions, seemed…drawn to him.
How she blushed when he came near her. Her cheeks had glowed like flame when he put his metal hand against her throat. Oh, her heartbeat had quickened in terror. But it had also grown in tempo for another reason that delighted him nearly as much—desire.
She wanted him.
The mortal girl just did not realize it yet.
How much fun it would be to teach her what dark pleasures loomed in the shadows if she only wished to follow him down those corridors. Truth be told, he was half ready to drag her. He was not a man known for his patience, and while he did not wish to force the girl, as it would ruin the fun in the long term—the short-term gratification was tempting.
No. She would make a better pet that knelt willingly at his knees, not one whose legs had been broken.
The image of her between his legs sent an unexpected thrill up his spine. He rarely—if ever—let others touch him. When his lust and boredom grew unmanageable, he slaked his interests on those who did only as he wished. And he never wished to let them lay a hand upon him. It was revolting far more than it was ever pleasurable.
But her? This little mortal?
He wondered what those lips might feel like, wrapped around his body. If she would fight him and struggle, or if she would obey his commands. He cared not either way.
Sadly, tonight was not about his pleasure. Or hers. He was not an utterly selfish cretin.
Tonight, was about fear.
If he were to manipulate her opinions of him—if he were to levy that which she expected against her—he would need to know precisely what she thought of him. More aptly, he would need to know what it was that she feared he might do to her.
Subverting expectations was the key to keeping a captive unsteady. If he knew precisely what she was terrified he might do to her, he knew what actions to either withhold or to tread closer still.
He grinned, too eager for his own good, and placed his hand across her body until he leaned over her, caging her in. Reaching his right hand forward, he gently traced his bare fingertips through her hair. It was so soft. She was trapped in his spell and could not wake until he allowed it. He had no fear of waking her.
Aon trailed his hand lower, settling against her neck, and her skin was so very warm against his palm. He wanted to touch more of her. To let his palms wander her, to cup the breasts that were barely hidden behind her nightgown.
How I wish I could taste your skin.
His sudden desire caught him off guard. While the other kings and queens deigned to take the sight from their partners, often permanently, so that they might play without the fear of being seen, he never saw the point.
What unusual things you bring out in me, my dear. His hand itched to glide lower, and instead he moved it from her altogether to avoid the temptation. What unusual things, indeed.
He shook his head. Tonight, he had come to sample her fear. Not to spend his lust on her sleeping form. The first time he touched her, she would be awake and aware. And either crying for mercy, begging for more—or if he had his way and his skill held true—both.
“What will it be, Lydia?” he asked her quietly, knowing she could not wake. “Do you think I will tear you limb from limb? Torment you with needles, with saw and with claw? Beat you, starve you? Perhaps eat you like a lamb?”
He hovered his palm over her head and worked the magic that ran deep in him. It was the flex of muscle that was as natural to him as walking. The nightmare deepened, and she whimpered in fear, tossing her head.
He felt his desire surge, felt his arousal grow, answering her dismay with a fire that burned in his veins. Lydia belonged to him. She was at his mercy. And she was afraid.
It was beautiful.
He pressed her further into the spell, and she arched her back, tempting him once again with her barely shrouded body. He let her terror grow to a fever pitch. His heartbeat thudded in his ears in time with her fear, if for a very different reason. Oh, by the Ancients, how he wanted her!
Patience, fool. Patience.
Like a chef, waiting for the masterpiece to be done and not daring to peek into the oven until the right time, he waited until her nightmare finished its rise. Until her fear peaked. “Let us see what kind of monster you think I am, hm?” He chuckled. “I so very much hope you’re the creative type.”
Placing his hand down upon her so his thumb pressed to the center of her forehead, he let himself slip inside of her dream. It was strange, to be inside another’s mind and yet in the waking world, both at once. Most found it disorienting. He found it normal.
After all, he was insane.
Living betwixt reality and the vivid, twisted realms of his mind was his daily state.
Her vision snapped into his mind. She was strapped to a medical table, her body cut open, her skin peeled away, and ribs cracked wide. Blood and gore decorated her.
He suppressed a moan. Barely.
The girl would be dead, were this not her nightmare. She wailed and sobbed in her dream, tossing her head, pulling on the restraints in a futile attempt to escape that which was so utterly inevitable. He walked up to the edge of the table, out of the line of sight, and found himself so utterly entranced by the sight of her that for a moment, he missed the figure who had done the handiwork.
Looking up, he assumed to see a mirrored image of himself, claw stained with blood as he lanced through organ and flesh to cut her apart like a butcher in a shop.
Instead, he found…some other man, one he did not recognize, some…faceless monster in a medical mask.
It was not him.
Her nightmare was not about him.
“Please, stop,” she wailed. “Please, no more!”
Aon was furious. He felt the heartbeat of lust switch instantly to that of rage. She was not afraid of him? How dare she, the fool!
The nonsense of it was so blatantly clear to him that it made him realize…no, he was not angry.
He was jealous.
Deeply, darkly, jealous.
He wanted to murder the monster in front of her, this phantasm of her mind. How utterly ridiculous was that? It made him laugh. Entirely at himself. Just when I believe I could not sink any further into depravity, here I am. Well done, old boy. Well done.
Lydia froze at the sound of his laugh, aware of him now within her dream. “And here I am, insulted to not have been invited to the party. Forgive me for my intrusion, but even inside your mind I fear I do not like the prospect of sharing.”
Before the dream could go any further, he snapped free of it, and took her by the shoulder in the waking world. He released her from the nightmare he had made for her. The one that was meant to show him exactly how to torment her to the fullest.
She shot up from where she lay, causing him to rear back up to straight posture, lest she crack her head into his. He opened his mouth to make another snide, cynical comment.
He never got the chance.
Before he could even get the first word out, she was in his arms. She threw herself against him, her hands grasping onto the fabric of his coat. She was shivering, gasping for air. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. What else was he to do?
He raised his bare hand and stroked his palm over her hair slowly, soothingly. She smelled divine. Like sunlight and grass, with the hint of the chemicals that remained of her line of work. He held her close, shushing her gently, resting his masked cheek against the top of her head where she had buried it into his shoulder.
They stayed like that for over a minute, although he would have gladly stayed like that for much longer if she had allowed it. Finally, she seemed to come back around. Her hands in his clothing loosened, and she looked up at him quizzically. “What happened?”
“You were crying out in your sleep. I came to ensure you were not in danger and found you mired within a dream from which I could not wake you.” A bold-faced lie, but a harmless one. She needn’t know her nightmare was his doing. It would be difficult to explain.
Aon combed his hand slowly through her hair, keeping his voice low. She shivered at his touch, and he watched her cheeks grow pink again. When he went to repeat the gesture, she grew shy and shrank away from him.
It did not offend him. Her response was from her own uncertainty. Her own difficulty in accepting her desire. He would break through it in little enough time.
“Thanks, I guess,” Lydia muttered.
“You are quite welcome.”
“It’s incredibly weird that you can be inside of my dreams, by the way.”
“Perhaps I was not there. Perhaps you were merely dreaming of me on your own. Your dark pursuer and savior all at once,” Aon mused playfully. He couldn’t help but tease her. It was too very much fun, and she was such good sport.
“Really?”
“No.”
Lydia glared at him.
Aon chuckled. He loved that indignant expression of hers. He hoped she kept it for as long as she was able. “I am quite jealous that you were dreaming of some other man dismantling you. I have not made an appropriate impression upon you, I see. I must try harder next time.” It was masked in a sarcastic tone. She had no idea how very truthful he was being.
“Please, don’t.” Lydia started to shift away from him, to get out of the bed on the far side from him.
No. He reached out and caught her wrist and pulled her back toward him. She locked up and went stiff, but she didn’t fight him. While he was glad that she did not scream and cry for help, that she froze up at all was a setback. He let out a long sigh, and lowering his head, shook it disappointment.
She looked at him as if he were a monster. He had wished to be that for her tonight, but now that he saw the fear in her eyes, as though she believed he was going to harm her? He found he preferred her confused and nervous desire far more palatable.
“I am merely teasing. You must learn to pardon me for the games I play.” Aon took her hand in his un-gauntleted one, and Lydia could do nothing but sit there, confused, as he slipped her palm against the bare skin of his neck.
Whatever possessed him to do it, he could not say. He did not know why he put her palm against him, save for that he wished to feel her touch. Wished that her hands had been tangled in his hair, not his clothing, as she had woken from her nightmare. Her hand was so very warm against him.
It was a reminder to her, in as much as he could muster, that he was a man. Immortal, ageless, and a demigod. But his heart still beat. And right now, his heart beat in more than just his neck. Her effect on him and his body was becoming a nuisance, as he had no inkling of how long it would be, before he could ease his frustration.
She watched him, wide-eyed and confused. A warmth bloomed in her cheeks. Good. Yes. That is how he wanted her. Caught between fear and desire.
Aon let out a dusky sigh and pressed his hand against hers, holding it there. “You make delightful prey, Lydia. How you blush when I come near, and yet you are so terrified of me. Both bring me great joy in equal measure. But I am not the butcher in your nightmare.”
Unfortunately.
“I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t get any of this. I just want to go home.”
“I know. Do not fret.” Aon slipped his hand from hers to run back through her hair. He flexed his power, weaving a spell over her once more, as effortlessly as a spider might his web. The poor thing needed sleep. He had robbed her of enough of it as it was. “You are exhausted. Sleep.”
Lydia slowly blinked her eyes, struggling to stay awake. She rallied against it valiantly, but it was useless. “What’re you…”
“Rest,” he commanded, and Lydia was helpless but to obey as a dreamless slumber came for her.
He laid her back down, gently settling her against the pillow, and pulled the cover up over her.
He lowered his head closer to hers and rested his metal-clad forehead against hers. He wished to be near to her. If he could not have her this night, he would settle for that much. He had the urge to crawl under the sheets with her now and hold her as she slept. To feel more of her against him. But he did not trust himself to keep from surrendering to his lust and rutting her while she stayed trapped in his spell.
And how unsportsmanlike would that be?
He chuckled. “What am I to do with you, Lydia? What indeed…”
With another, tired and beleaguered sigh, he stood up. He had intended to garner more intelligence on his little houseguest this evening. Instead, he had only succeeded in deepening the mystery of her. And why, of all things in this world, he had such an overwhelming need to kiss her?
Accrediting the wayward urge with unspent desires and latent insanity, he shook his head and turned away. Problems for another night.
Yet, as he slipped through space to enter his own bedchambers, he knew that while her dreams had been free of him—the inverse would not hold true.
Who was haunting who?
