State of Grace (Resurrection) by Elizabeth Davies

Connection severed, I mentally shook my head in a vain attempt to clear my thoughts. I had been on the verge of letting him do whatever he wanted to me, but not in the ‘hello big fella, come and get me’ sort of way: it was more like I had been hypnotised or slipped a drug.
     
    Wonderful! I was having an hallucination within an hallucination. Bleakly I thought of a hall of mirrors, my reflection forever diminishing as it bounced from one sheet of glass to the next. Maybe this was happening to me; I was being sucked so far down into my own subconscious I would never find my way back to the surface again.
     
    I let out a small cry of dismay at the thought that this is what insanity must feel like from the inside looking out, and instantly the cloak was wrapped around my body and strong arms held it tightly against my chilled skin. He scooped me up as easily as a father lifts his baby daughter, took a couple of strides to the hearth and lowered me gently to the floor. The warmth from the fire was delicious, but nothing could chase the chill away from my mind.
     
    He knelt beside me to throw more logs onto the flames and I could see the muscles bunching underneath his shirt. This was as good a distraction as any and I followed the contours of his back down to his bottom. He had an extremely nice backside, I thought mournfully, still reeling from his effect on me and my own imminent madness.
     
    ‘Better?’ he asked. It sounded more like ‘bitterrr’ but I got the gist of it.
     
    ‘Yes. Thank you.’
     
    He stiffened and stilled, then looked at me.
     
    ‘Good,’ he replied, his tone neutral.
     
    He had obviously understood me. That was a start, at least. It helps when you and your dream lover can communicate in more than smouldering looks and a nip or two. My mind was still shot, and I had a horrible feeling I was starting to come apart at the seams.
     
    Roman sat quiet ly next to me, unnaturally motionless. I glanced out of the corner of my eye to check he was still there, still real, even though every nerve in my body screamed out my awareness of him. I slowly began to relax as the minutes ticked by. He was apparently content not to touch or talk to me, and he kept his hypnotic eyes to himself. I was bone-deep weary, the lateness of the hour and the warmth of the fire seeping into me but although my body was tired my mind was very much awake. I stared into the flames, watching them dance over the logs, and listened to the crackle of the fire as it fed, and tried to make sense of my thoughts. Roman appeared to be deep in thoughts of his own.
     
    All of a sudden he was on his feet, alert. The menace and suppressed violence emanating from him was palpable, and my fear of him returned in a rush sending adrenalin spiking through me so my legs tingled with the urge to flee. His face was porcelain pale and totally devoid of any expression, but his eyes burned dark and alien. I sensed the tension in him: he was almost vibrating with it, yet he remained statue still. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. How could I have forgotten how dangerous he was? I had seen him kill three men in less than a heartbeat, without breaking into a sweat. His attention was focused on the door, and I could feel nothing but relief that it wasn’t focused on me. He terrified me.
     
    Finally I heard the fain t sounds that had alerted Roman: the soft creak of a door, the muted laughter of a woman and the low answering rumble of a male voice. In an instant Roman was before the door to our bedroom, a flicker of concern on his face. A clatter of footsteps and a woman’s scream came from outside, harsh voices were raised in anger and I could hear the unmistakable noise of fighting. The woman sounded as if she was pleading, but her words were unintelligible. A tortured scream rent the air, and cries of agony filled the night. They abruptly ceased and I flinched. She screamed again, a terrible keening sound that broke down into heart-rending