The Dream Crafter

by Danielle Monsch

  The Spellbook pulsed in his arms, and if he dared let himself believe it, he would swear it emitted contentment, happy to be back with him. The feeling couldn’t be real, but a smile spread on his face in answer. “We got it.”

  “Now, we need to go into the dream and get Hadrien–”

  “No.” Her scowl was immediate, and if she thought that would change his mind on this, she underestimated how deeply his need to keep her safe was. “No. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but don’t lie to me. Don’t tell me nothing happened.”

  The way her eyes fell from his told the story, and he put the Spellbook to the side and hugged her close, fingers threading through the coarse blackness of her hair.

  He placed small kisses at her temple, breathing her in, letting everything else drain away and leaving only the heaven of her in his arms. “I still have time, and I have friends still on my side. Let’s try to get Hadrien without involving you. If nothing pans out, we’ll talk, but for now let’s wait.”

  “Only for now.” Aggression built within her, coming out in the tension of her body and the way she grabbed his hair, a harder reflection of his own gentler caresses. “If we can’t get him any other way, I will go after him. You won’t stop me.” Not letting him answer, she crashed her lips to his.

  Their mouths meshed, tongues battling for dominance early as mouths and lips didn’t even wait to meet before the opened to each thrust, each aggression.

  Her panting breaths ran through him, good fuck, and sharp white teeth met the plump flesh of his lip. She bruised and used, and pulled him away from her.

  “This is where I climb you like a tree,” and the breathless laugh in her voice was punctuated by the move to do just that, the nails clawing into his shoulders and the legs wrapping around his outer thigh and moving up him, until she was above and he was below, until she was the aggressor and his tilted so far back the strain on his neck made swallowing near impossible, but pulling away from her to rectify their positions was even more undesirable, because that meant separating his mouth from hers.

  Her fingernails scratched down his scalp, sparking pleasurable bursts through his system, top to bottom, all because of her. Her mouth bruised his, her body writhed atop his, the suggestive movements building him up so his cock now only held achy hardness. She could kick him back and decide to ride him like a horse, and he’d be ready to be mounted…and would love every minute of it, if the natural sensuality of her movements told true.

  Amana pulled back but not to stop kissing him – no, now she attacked his neck, pushing his head further back and near tearing into him, aggression in every movement.

  He wanted nothing more than to keep like this all night, but the discomfort pinged through his neck and shoulders, and he’d rather not have a sore neck as one of the remembrances of this night. He’d rather it all be pleasure, and the only aches ones that would cause wiggles and half-smiles the next day.

  With that in mind, he pulled her back slightly, breaking the suction from his neck with such force he could almost feel the hickey being formed in the movement. “Bed,” and his voice had never been so rough, so turned on.

  “Bed,” he repeated, because her eyes were unfocused, and fuck, there was nothing like a woman looking at you, hazy with passion, waiting for you to make it good for her.

  Merc picked her up, not letting her go on her own speed, and headed for the bed. Even as he walked her mouth found his again, and the journey was made from memory as he prayed not to run into any walls and break the mood.

  They collapsed into a heap where he pulled up and first pulled off his shirt, then hers. This was what he needed, her skin ready and on display for his mouth, and he leaned down to take full advantage, because fuck, she was beautiful, and she was here. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not after this.

  His mouth found her nipple, a dark brown little nub which enticed him, invited him close to play, and play he did. To the symphony of her moans, he rolled the perky bundle between his lips, using his tongue to get her nice and wet, flicking it with the tip of his tongue and not letting go for a moment.

  Her hands found their way to his hair again, kneading him like a cat, alternating between pulling him close and trying to pull him away.

  In this he would not be dissuaded. He took his time, letting her moans go high and keening before he moved to her other breast, giving the same treatment to the other nipple.

  Amana was rolling her hips underneath him, pushing her pelvis up into him, sparking through him desire swift as a wildfire.

  The pants had to go, and he was the one to get rid of them. He pulled them down those gorgeous legs, spreading her legs in the process, and the dark hair that tufted from beneath her underwear had his cock hard and leaking.

  She rushed up, crushing her lips to his again and pulling him down so he lay on top of her, skin to skin every inch crushed together. Her legs were parted and he was settled in the cradle of her thighs, and as she moved against him, he pushed back, only her thin panties and the rough denim of his jeans separating them.

  Speaking of, it was past uncomfortable down there, and he reached his hand down to unzip and free himself. Her hand met his and she cupped him through his own underwear, the warmth of her palm spreading past his underwear to the skin underneath.

  He groaned, whispered, “Do you feel what you do to me? This is you, it’s only you.”

  He divested them of clothes, wanting skin to skin, breath to breath. He needed to be close to her. Adrenaline thrummed that they had survived, that they were together, and the book was safe, and the impossible had happened.

  She was all slick and wet and heat, and she moved underneath him like they had been connected for years.

  As she clenched around him, as he buried his head into her neck and groaned his own pleasure, hope spread through him. They’d conquered their first battle, together, and they’d do it again.

  Chapter Forty

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  Tec’s voice was an annoying buzz, flitting around her and poking through the haze of the slow change from sleep to full wakefulness. “Fallon, can you hear me? Fallon, report.”

  She was groggy, not her usual way of waking, and it took a moment before last night’s images, last night’s attack, filtered through her brain. “What is it?” But she knew, she knew.

  “The Spellbook is gone. The vault was broken into. It’s whole and nothing else is missing, but the magics around it were disabled. All items except the Spellbook are accounted for. Kyo is upset.”

  “Nice understatement, Tec.” She threw her legs over the side of the bed, her eyes lighting on Tenro in its usual spot next to her headboard. It was bristling, its displeasure of the night’s happenings clear.

  This needed to be put to rest, once and for all and before circumstances spiraled into places she did not want to go.

  An old tree flashed through her mind, and her teeth ground together so hard the vibration rattled her eardrum.

  No, it ended here, and it ended now, and maybe she’d been going about this all wrong. “Tec, get me to The Hill, and make sure they understand this is not a request they can say no to.”

  A pause, then Tec’s voice came through, worry evident despite the obvious try to keep it hidden. “Why do you wish to go there?”

  “Plan G just came to me.”

  Chapter Forty-One

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  The thing about solitary was that it wasn’t.

  True, there was only one semi-durable cot in each cell, a cot with one thin, stinking mattress – the same mattress Nakoa was laying on, the lumps no longer noticeable due to familiarity. With only one mattress came only one prisoner, because here prisoners couldn’t be counted on to play nice or not maim each other if they had to share space.

  That didn’t stop the twenty-four seven noise where the population cat-called and threatened or just fucking laughed the most insane laughs, noises which the guards tolerated even after lights out as long as it didn’t go above a
n unspoken acceptable level.

  There was never peace, the peace of a moonlit beach and the salt air strong in your nostrils, the birds and waves serenading the few earthbound creatures walking the sand and making their way through the tide.

  Next to his sister, it was that peace he missed most.

  He breathed deep through his nose, a calming technique he was using more and more often even as it was getting less and less effective. The strands of an orchestral floated through his cell, the music a privilege that was his alone, and he hummed along with the notes, bringing them into himself to soothe the always bubbling anger that thrummed through every bit of skin and blood.

  Kregen stepped up to his cell door. The sergeant only arrived when things were happening, and Nakoa turned his attention away from the beginnings of Che Gelida Manina in idle curiosity. Amana wasn’t here, and really, nothing else mattered.

  “Don’t you think that music is kind of hard to listen to? Not like you can whistle to it or anything.” The sergeant was on the later side of middle-age but still in fighting shape. Nakoa had never been able to suss out what, if any, powers the man had or if he was something other than human, but that was par around here. It would be stupid for the guards to announce what they could and couldn’t do to the beings they were housing. The man ran the block fair and treated everyone with respect, and here, there was no higher praise for a guard. The inmates would still skewer him if that’s what it took to get out of here, but that was understood in this world.

  “It’s about hope and love. Sometimes it’s nice to remember those things.” Nakoa stood, everything easy and non-threatening. He had no desire to be pulled from his music and thrown in the hole. Not today. The berserker was too close to the skin today.

  The escort team filed forward and lined across the wall in front of his cell door. Five special guards, their only job moving the solitary inmates in and out of their cells whenever the situation called for it. They were mean fuckers, and even amongst this group, most thought twice before starting any shit during transport.

  Nakoa looked to Kregen, eyes level and no attitude in his tone. “What’s going on?”

  “You have a visitor.”

  It couldn’t be his sister, and he got no other visitors. He was here as a murdering berserker, not because he had any unsavory contacts, so the system left him alone. He was supposed to serve his time and not get out of line. “Who is it?”

  Kregen shrugged. “I’m not told that. I’m only told when to get you and where to put you.”

  Without any further questions, Nakoa held out his hands in front of him, wrists pressed tight together and ankles hip-width apart.

  A two-inch hold appeared in the cell door, and chains slipped through, slithering with serpentine ease down the door and across the floor, climbing over his prison blues to anchor his wrists.

  The chains were something he was used to. Once upon a time he struggled, but that ended a long time ago, when he figured out struggling meant he missed the chance to see his sister and wouldn’t get another one for months, maybe years. The magical chain wound its way around his wrists and waist before going down to cuff his legs, row upon row of gleaming silver wrapped around his body.

  Once the chain was in place the door disappeared, the five guards in their customary pattern as a prisoner emerged. There were no weapons allowed here, but whether it was magic or they were one of those looks human but not quite that populated the realms, they were able to fashion weapons from psychic energy – in essence, think weapons into existence.

  So they had access to weapons only they could create and only they could yield. It was the perfect solution for being around prisoners who could make a bobby pin dangerous.

  Nakoa was led into a part of the prison he’d never seen before, the part that housed the warden’s office and the suits, people who stayed far away from the prisoners. This wasn’t even where visits with lawyers or law enforcement usually took place. This was something else entirely.

  The door opened to a large room dominated by a long table with multiple chairs. On the far wall a window overlooked a seascape. Since this place wasn’t anywhere near water, that had to be an illusion spell.

  In front of the magical window with her back to him was a lone figure – female, with long red hair and the stance of someone who knew their way around a fight. Strong and impressive, he could read her as a fierce opponent, but she was still a girl, and he was still a berserker in one of the most dangerous prisons in the realms, and why was she here?

  Kregen led him to the seat at the head of the table, where the chains wound themselves around several posts, anchoring him and limiting his mobility to only a few inches either way. As Kregen double-checked the security, Nakoa asked again, “What’s going on?”

  “Not sure,” the guard answered. “All I can tell you is it’d be a wise choice to listen and not lose your temper.”

  The theme whenever they spoke to him these days – don’t lose your temper. Kregen kept the words easy, but they held the weight and experience that told the man speaking had beheld the reason behind the warning.

  Don’t lose your temper. If Kregen truly knew how often he was wrestling the berserker these days, good guard or not, Nakoa would place odds of finding himself on the wrong side of a riot.

  If that ever happened, he’d thank the man for it.

  The woman kept her back to him as everything was set up, and it wasn’t until they were alone that she finally spoke. “Do you like this view?”

  “What?”

  She stared out the window for a moment more before pushing away and giving her attention to him and the room. She was pretty and casual, and she neither hid her femininity nor played it up, the two extremes every other woman he’d ever seen in these walls handle the fact they were vulnerable. She was all in black, her clothing suitable for either a board meeting or a battle.

  If the grounds got hold of her she’d never see the outside alive again, but still she had that look of superior smugness so many of those that passed through the prison had, studying him like he was an interesting pet. Any interest he may have had in this conversation vanished.

  He flexed his hands, breathed deep, in through the nose and letting it fill each pathway of his lungs. Zen. Rage was too close to the surface these days, the beast agitating beneath his skin.

  He’d listen, he’d tell her to rot, and he’d go back to his cell to wait for his sister’s next visit. No problems, no berserk.

  Zen.

  “The view. I get how it might be nicer than staring at stone walls, but don’t you think it’s kind of stupid to have something which is so obviously. Not. Out. There.”

  She was waiting on his answer, looking as intent as the guards did when asking about a missing package or contraband, which was ridiculous for the small talk of an ice breaking question. “I’ll face reality,” he said, that he responded a surprise to his brain, which was only now catching up to the fact he answered as well as the low, serious tone he answered in.

  She nodded, sitting opposite from him and kicking her legs on the table. “I figured you’d take that view. You and your sister, headfirst facing reality. I admire that.”

  The word sister had only just finished passing through his brain when he sprung up, chains groaning against the stress. “What are you talking about?” The berserker began to wake, opening its eyes to see the view.

  “Sit down, Nakoa. We don’t want to worry anyone.” She lifted her chin in a dismissive motion, and his fist clenched in involuntary reaction. “I’m here to talk. Hells, I’m here to give a measure of good news. Don’t you want to hear about big sis?”

  He didn’t sit, the chains still holding him back. “Talk,” and his voice was taking on the growl, the blood moving through his veins faster, muscles twitching with the stimuli, and the berserker was now fixated on her.

  “Ah.” She nodded, got up, began walking towards him. “I see. We can go that way too.”

  Now near him, sh
e touched the edge of the chain closest to her, and the chain began unravelling, falling away from his body. As the last chain cleared his body, the woman looked him over. “Let it free at me, if you want.”

  Confusion slowed everything in him, the berserker rearing back to study her. “What?”

  “You heard me. Now’s your chance. I’m the dumbass that unchained you, and if you attack me, it’s not like they can do anything additional to you, is there? So make your choice. Attack, or listen.”

  Red hair fell across her face and down her shoulder, the same red as the blood that splashed freely when flesh was torn apart, and the metal in her gaze was a weapon cleaving through bone and marrow and the strings that kept soul attached to body.

  When Nakoa first came here, a terrified kid, a lifer guided him and trained him. Dez showed him how to survive, and in here, that meant showing him who to watch out for.

  You a berserker. That’ll keep away most, yeah, but don’t get cocky. You gotta watch for them that ain’t scared of you. Not them like me, ones who got nothing to lose and’ll use you for suicide duty. The ones you be on guard against, you’ll know ’em. You’ll feel ’em. Air changes around ’em. Your skin, prickles. You’ll wanna challenge ’em, and you’ll wanna run away.

  The berserker stilled, focused, and, for the first time in its existence, hesitated as it took in the woman standing before him. She was weaponless, a woman trapped among the most dangerous of men, and here in front of her, he understood those words.

  She studied him for several moments, and when he had no reaction, moved back to the end of the table, releasing him from the magnetic energy which surrounded her. Beautiful air filled his lungs again, the only clue he hadn’t been breathing as she stood before him.

  Such a worthy opponent…

  Red hair and gold eyes…