Dreamveil by Lynn Viehl

the main courses on the board in French and English.”
    She held the chalk above the board. “Fire away.”
    “Loup de mer rôti aux herbes,” he told her as he moved to stand beside her and watch.
    “Roasted sea wolf?” Her grin reappeared. “Is that with or without the fur?”
    “Roasted sea bass ,” he corrected, “with herbs only.”
    “Then why not just call it bass?”
    “It would be confusing.” He loved to see her smile. “In French, bass is un instrument de musique. ”
    “It is in English, too,” she assured him, “and we never get confused.”
    He pointed at the board. “ Loup de mer , if you please.”
    Dansant gave her the rest of the menu, throughout which she joked and even constructed a kind of story. His poulet demi-deuil was not a chicken with a truffle-stuffed skin, but a depressed widowed hen; the filet de boeuf au vin had done something unspeakable to the hen’s coq , probably by stewing him in the petits pois aux morilles , or dropping him in with the cabbage and potatoes to make trinxat.
    “The poor chick,” Rowan sighed as she finished writing the last item on the board in English. “She loses her guy to a side of beef, stuffs herself with high-priced ’shrooms, and then ends up roasting for it.” She chuckled as she gave him a sideways glance. “Ain’t love grand?”
    Dansant’s amusement faded. Love was not grand; it was tragedy, it was horror. For him, there could never be love.
    Last night, when Rowan had been in his arms, she had murmured something against his mouth, and another voice woke inside his head.
    This life was never yours. Neither is she.
    In dousing his need, that voice had been as effective as a fire hose. Dansant had groaned as he pushed Rowan from him, holding her arm only to keep her from collapsing. Commanding her made her pliant but also temporarily stripped her of her power of mind and will; she would do nothing but respond willingly to his desires. Even in that she had no choice, and once more Dansant was reminded of the monster that he was beneath his civilized veneer, that he could do this to a being as helpless as she.
    “Before I kissed you,” he said to her, “did you want me? Give me your truth, Rowan.”
    She nodded slowly, and then shook her head.
    It seemed she shared his confusion. “Do you have a lover or husband?” Another shake of her head. At least he had not trespassed on another man’s claim. “You will remember nothing of this. As before, you will feel safe and at ease with me. You will trust me as you do a friend.” He couldn’t help adding, “More so than any of your other friends.”
    He’d taken his hands from her, and knelt before her, and after releasing her from his control had tended to her injuries. She would never remember the kissing or the touching. Or how close she had come to being stripped and dragged to the floor and fucked until she screamed for him.
    “Dansant?” A slim hand waved in front of his face. “You keep zoning out on me.”
    “Forgive me.” Not for the first time he wished he could erase his own memories. “Talk of love . . . it is not always so grand.”
    “ You got burned?” Her chin dropped. “Come on.”
    “It was a friend,” he lied. “He lost his beloved one, and it sent him into hell. I did what I could; I tried to bring him back to life, but he . . . he suffers still.” Part of it was true. They had both suffered, each in their own way, after discovering what had been and never would be again.
    Her eyes became distant. “That’s why they call it true love, I guess.” A rumble came from the alley, and she put down the chalk. “Sounds like the first delivery is here. I’ll get it.”
    As Rowan went to the back door, Dansant looked up the shadowy flight of stairs, almost expecting to see Meriden there, waiting, listening. He could almost see his black eyes, staring at him, knowing everything, despising him for what he had done to Rowan. Hating him for what he was, wanting to