Unholy Night by Candice Gilmer Page B

the rebounding ball and started his own attack on the hoop, moving much better than Neil could tonight.
    Of course, Dale was probably getting sleep at night.
    He fought to block Dale’s shot, but again, it was pointless—Dale was stomping his ass. Not that he was any great player, but seriously, this kind of a stomping? Pathetic.
    “Game,” Dale said, catching the ball and grinning. “Man, what’s up with you tonight?”
    He shook his head, wiping some of the sweat off his brow; no one else was in the gym tonight, saving him from total humiliation. For once. He had to be thankful for small miracles.
    “Neil, man, what’s up?” Dale asked.
    Twitching at the sound of his name, he met his brother’s eyes. “I’m tired.”
    Dale raised a brow. “You doing all right?”
    “Fine,” he replied, turning away.
    Dale, though, didn’t seem to know how to take a hint. He stepped right in Neil’s line of sight, tossing the ball over his shoulder, where it hit the bucket in the corner with the other balls and sank down in. One last swoosh of the night.
    It was hard not to growl at him.
    “You’re not fine,” Dale said, studying him.
    “Really, just drop it. It’s nothing.” He tried to walk away, but the stubborn ass wouldn’t leave him alone.
    “You’re not having dreams, are you?”
    “I dream every night. Part of the chemistry.” He headed out of the gym, really not wanting to have this conversation.
    He knew exactly where Dale was going with this, and he didn’t want to hear it. His dreams were not “those” dreams. The ones each of his brothers said they had right after they first met the women who became their wives.
    These were not those kinds of dreams.
    These were nightmares.
    “Don’t be an ass,” Dale said. “Kristy will kill me if I let you animals sweat all over the gym.”
    “That I would like to see,” he muttered. Kristy was maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, and though she had quite the mouth on her on occasion, she wasn’t in any way able to control Dale.
    At least not physically. However, the brothers seemed rather wimpy when it came to decrees from their wives.
    Something he didn’t quite understand.
    “Seriously, man, are you dreaming?”
    He stopped, hands on hips, baring his canines. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
    Dale snarled right back at him, and regardless of Dale’s pacifist beliefs, the man could rip a guy’s head off with a single stroke.
    And Neil was pushing. He knew he was. He should stop, but he didn’t.
    “You are,” Dale said, a broad grin replacing the snarl on his face. “Well, tell me all about it. Who is she? Where’d you meet her? I swear, I never thought I’d live to see the day you gave up the bachelorhood groove.”
    “They aren’t those kinds of dreams.”
    “What do you mean? There’s a woman, right?”
    “I don’t know what it is. And it’s been plaguing me for the last few weeks.” The dark, the cold, the smell of the blood...and frigging flowers. What a damn combination. Even now, some of the images resurfaced in his mind and he had to force himself to push the thoughts away.
    “Violent dreams? Attacks and stuff?” Dale asked.
    He nodded.
    “But there’s a woman in them.”
    “Sometimes,” Neil replied when they turned into the locker room for a shower. He didn’t want to tell him there was always a woman—then Dale would never shut up.
    His finger flicked on the door lock, but Dale followed him in before he could flip the switch.
    Not that a door would keep Dale out.
    “And is it violence against her?” Dale asked as they started stripping for the showers.
    “Yeah.” Sometimes, he would save the woman. Sometimes not. But in the ones where he saved her, a strange thing had occurred. She’d not been afraid of him.
    Women like that didn’t exist.
    Dale burst out laughing. “My brother, you are having the dreams! I dreamed for a month straight about Kristy being mauled by spiders when I first met her.”
    “Doesn’t