myself forget. Not about my parents, or Lawrence, or anything. I can’t let the desire already pooling in my stomach take over.
Just as I manage to tame my longing, his lips retreat from mine. For a moment I stay, leaning forward, waiting for him to return. Then my eyes flutter open, I look around and I realize it didn’t work. My heart starts to thrum again, but this time not from excitement. We’re still here.
Damn it.
Orion grimaces. I’m so close to him that I can see the microspasms the corner of his mouth makes and the way his beautiful, cold blue eyes twitch. “That should’ve worked.” He runs one large hand through his tangled blond hair.
“We’ll have to try something else,” I say, taking advantage of his momentary distraction to edge toward the nightstand. At first I’m just trying to get away from Orion, but then I see the shabby paperback just lying there, the only possible clue in this antiseptic hellhole.
Picking it up, I glance at the title: The Tempest . Ironic. Here’s a play about dreams inside of a dream. The edges of the pages ripple underneath my fingertips as I rifle through them. I pause at a random scene in the fifth act and read the first line at the top of the page.
“‘This thing of darkness I acknowledge as mine,’” I mouth. The line is spoken by the werebeast wizard Prospero.
“Prospero was a bastard.” Orion’s minty breath ghosts against my neck.
I flinch as a needle of desire laces through me.
“A well spoken one, at least,” I mumble distractedly, trying not to let the heady and strange combination of Orion’s closeness overwhelm me. “But what does it mean?”
“Plumbing the depths of Shakespeare won’t help us. Nor will it help us find your friend.” He plucks the book from my numb, pink hands, but it’s too late.
I can already feel an answer beginning to assemble itself in my brain. What were Orion’s very first words to me when we met? A quote from The Tempest . ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, you and I.’
And the way he doesn’t look at the room around him. Like he memorized every inch of it long ago.
“It’s yours,” I whisper.
“What is?” He closes the paperback with a snap, although his voice is suddenly light. Too light, considering his earlier hurry to rush me out of here.
“This is your nightmare,” I say.
Chapter Two
“Yes,” Orion whispers. Absently, he strokes the spine of the paperback. Something about the motion reminds me of when I sat inside the tent, right before my parents were murdered, touching their shadows, trying to gather them up and keep them safe. Suddenly, some part of me wants to gather him up and keep him safe, too. But I don’t have time to feel bad for him. He’s right. We have to get out of here.
Cold shoots up through my bare feet as I pad toward the door. It’s too obvious to be the real way out, I know that. But I have to try something. I reach out and grab the knob, but immediately draw back. Jesus. It’s even colder than the floor.
“The door’s not the way out and you know it.”
I turn to Orion, who’s leaning against the bedpost. The florescent lights flicker, sending shadows skittering over his sharp cheekbones.
I shove my hands into my armpits. “Okay, tell me how we get out of here, then.”
“I have another idea. Come here.” He holds out his arms in what I guess is supposed to be a welcoming gesture. But his muscled body looks about as comfortable and warm as a statue.
“Why?”
I glance around at the walls, looking for bloodstains or whip marks or something, anything that would explain why this is the place Orion’s mind returns him to every night. But all I sense is the stinging stench of chemicals burning my nostrils. It kind of smells like my old photography lab from high school, back when we had cameras with black and white film.
“I’m not going
Just as I manage to tame my longing, his lips retreat from mine. For a moment I stay, leaning forward, waiting for him to return. Then my eyes flutter open, I look around and I realize it didn’t work. My heart starts to thrum again, but this time not from excitement. We’re still here.
Damn it.
Orion grimaces. I’m so close to him that I can see the microspasms the corner of his mouth makes and the way his beautiful, cold blue eyes twitch. “That should’ve worked.” He runs one large hand through his tangled blond hair.
“We’ll have to try something else,” I say, taking advantage of his momentary distraction to edge toward the nightstand. At first I’m just trying to get away from Orion, but then I see the shabby paperback just lying there, the only possible clue in this antiseptic hellhole.
Picking it up, I glance at the title: The Tempest . Ironic. Here’s a play about dreams inside of a dream. The edges of the pages ripple underneath my fingertips as I rifle through them. I pause at a random scene in the fifth act and read the first line at the top of the page.
“‘This thing of darkness I acknowledge as mine,’” I mouth. The line is spoken by the werebeast wizard Prospero.
“Prospero was a bastard.” Orion’s minty breath ghosts against my neck.
I flinch as a needle of desire laces through me.
“A well spoken one, at least,” I mumble distractedly, trying not to let the heady and strange combination of Orion’s closeness overwhelm me. “But what does it mean?”
“Plumbing the depths of Shakespeare won’t help us. Nor will it help us find your friend.” He plucks the book from my numb, pink hands, but it’s too late.
I can already feel an answer beginning to assemble itself in my brain. What were Orion’s very first words to me when we met? A quote from The Tempest . ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, you and I.’
And the way he doesn’t look at the room around him. Like he memorized every inch of it long ago.
“It’s yours,” I whisper.
“What is?” He closes the paperback with a snap, although his voice is suddenly light. Too light, considering his earlier hurry to rush me out of here.
“This is your nightmare,” I say.
Chapter Two
“Yes,” Orion whispers. Absently, he strokes the spine of the paperback. Something about the motion reminds me of when I sat inside the tent, right before my parents were murdered, touching their shadows, trying to gather them up and keep them safe. Suddenly, some part of me wants to gather him up and keep him safe, too. But I don’t have time to feel bad for him. He’s right. We have to get out of here.
Cold shoots up through my bare feet as I pad toward the door. It’s too obvious to be the real way out, I know that. But I have to try something. I reach out and grab the knob, but immediately draw back. Jesus. It’s even colder than the floor.
“The door’s not the way out and you know it.”
I turn to Orion, who’s leaning against the bedpost. The florescent lights flicker, sending shadows skittering over his sharp cheekbones.
I shove my hands into my armpits. “Okay, tell me how we get out of here, then.”
“I have another idea. Come here.” He holds out his arms in what I guess is supposed to be a welcoming gesture. But his muscled body looks about as comfortable and warm as a statue.
“Why?”
I glance around at the walls, looking for bloodstains or whip marks or something, anything that would explain why this is the place Orion’s mind returns him to every night. But all I sense is the stinging stench of chemicals burning my nostrils. It kind of smells like my old photography lab from high school, back when we had cameras with black and white film.
“I’m not going
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