Cold soaked into the soles of Mal’s feet and disseminated, traveled through the tendons of his heels, then up the muscles of his calves. It seeped into his bones and shot upward, continuing its cruel climb until Mal’s thighs were chilled. His hamstrings stiffened. His buttocks clenched, and as they did, Mal felt it—slick.

Terrifying. Unwanted.

Heat.

Not now. Not when his feet were cold.

The world materialized before his eyes. Wide windows overlooking the twinkling lights of the city at night. Men in tuxedos, some who showed no interest in him, and some who leered. Their faces blurred, featureless, yet frighteningly cruel and inhuman. Inhuman, or inhumane? Mal’s heart pounded.

He couldn’t tell.

Even now, he couldn’t tell.

“Mal,” a familiar voice told him in gentle tones meant to injure. “Go see to our gentleman guest. Make sure he has a good time this evening. I know you’ll make me proud.”

Mal didn’t want to. He knew that he had to be good, but the thought of listening to one more word made him sick.

“Go on,” the voice told him.

Baylor.

Mal’s mouth dried, and his tongue shriveled into a desiccated husk.

“Show our guests how much we appreciate them. I’m counting on you.”

But there was slick between his legs, and Mal wanted to scream. He tried, but his lips were fused together, and the fear that longed to escape roiled all the darkness from the bottom of his soul and sent it lashing up his throat like vicious tentacles. They snagged the scream before it could even rattle his throat, muted it, and made it useless.

His body didn’t belong to him anymore. His only safe haven was his thoughts—but even those were dangerous.

The blurred, featureless faces. The hopeless desperation.

The cold rising from his feet wove itself through his body until it pierced his heart, and Mal screamed behind lips that would not open into a room filled with men who didn’t care.

Mal woke with a start. Perspiration matted his hair to his forehead and stuck the sheets to him. The room stank of fear.

Where was he?

Heart pounding, Mal lay still and strained to listen to his surroundings. A heater clicked on across the room. Water ran through pipes in the walls. Very distantly, there was conversation.

There were other people here.

No.

No.

Slowly, very slowly, he traced the back of his hands across the sheets. It had all just been a dream, hadn’t it? A bad dream. He’d been liberated from The White Lotus decades ago. He was free.

Midway through its arc, his hand found skin. Mal froze.

No.

There had to be an explanation. He couldn’t have dreamed that he’d been set free. His bones ached in ways they never had during his youth, and his memory was full of the life he’d led since his liberation—both for the best, and the worst. There was no way he could have dreamed it all. If he calmed down and pulled himself back together, everything would become clear. When he stopped panicking, he’d remember where he was, and why. Baylor was dead—he’d been dead for years. Lowe was gone now, too old to ever come after Mal again. There was nothing more to fear.

Mal inhaled slowly and deeply, counting, then exhaled with the same slow deliberateness. When his lungs were empty, he took another breath and did his best to remember.

Heat. Cold January weather. A kind face. An all-encompassing glow.

Yesterday had been a good day. Alex, one of the children he’d used to babysit, had married the love of his life. The wedding had been beautiful. There’d been a reception…

A reception.

Memories that had previously eluded Mal returned. At the reception, he’d stowed himself away in a storage closet, and he’d met Vincent, then gone home with him. The unfamiliar room was Vincent’s hotel room—the one Mal had willingly come to, and the one he’d decided to spend the night in. The bad dream that had poisoned his good night wasn’t real.

Everything was fine.

Mal closed his eyes, but sleep was an impossibility. Adrenaline had spiked his pulse and left him wired. What he needed was to get out of bed and shake it off, but with Vincent sleeping beside him, it would be difficult. Mal didn’t want to disturb him.

Moving as carefully as he could, Mal rolled over in search of the edge of the bed. He’d gravitated toward the center in his sleep—or was it that he’d fallen asleep in Vincent’s arms? The details were obscured now, lost to his prior panic.

As Mal found the edge of the bed, Vincent issued a plaintive sigh and rolled toward him. He wrapped an arm loosely around Mal’s waist and tugged him close, and for a moment, Mal lost the will to leave. There was comfort in Vincent’s arms. His touch was a promise that everything was going to be okay.

But Mal knew better.

He’d met too many men who had promised him love only to say they were leaving in the next breath. There was nothing wrong with enjoying sex, and there was certainly nothing wrong with daydreaming, but giving himself false hope was only going to hurt him in the long run. The universe had made it clear that he wasn’t suited for long-term relationships. Mal had come to accept it.

The only one he could trust to protect him was himself.

Flattening himself against the mattress, Mal slid out from beneath Vincent’s arm. He rolled off the bed, groped for his cell phone through the darkness, and turned its flashlight on. According to the time on his phone, it was a little past five in the morning.

In silence, he found his clothes and dressed. Vincent didn’t stir. Every now and then, when Mal was a little less cautious with his flashlight than he should have been, he caught glimpses of him on the bed. He’d rolled onto his stomach in search of Mal, and had clutched the pillow Mal’s head had been resting on to his chest like a stuffed animal. His hair was in disarray from the time they’d spent between the sheets, and there was a small smile on his face, like he was having a good dream.

When he woke up and discovered that Mal wasn’t there anymore, would that smile decay? Would reality leave him feeling robbed of his happiness? A pang of regret displaced some of the terror in Mal’s heart.

He couldn’t stay, but there had to be something he could do to soften the blow.

Maybe a text?

Mal imagined sending one only for Vincent’s phone to go off, waking him from his sleep before Mal had a chance to leave the room. Likewise, he didn’t want to send one out in the hall—he wanted to be gone before Vincent woke up, because if Vincent came to find him, he wasn’t sure he could resist a plea to come back to bed. After the dream he’d woken up from, he didn’t feel comfortable there. He needed to go home.

So what was he to do?

Mal cast the beam of his flashlight at the bedside table. There was a block of note paper and a hotel branded pen by the telephone, which he helped himself to.

Vincent—

Something came up, and I had to go. I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye. I had a great time last night, and I hope you did, too. If you ever find yourself back in Aurora, let me know. I’ll make sure my pumpkin is available for a drive around town. :)

x Mal

It was the best he could do, given the circumstances. Mal tore the note from the pad and put it on his side of the bed, close to where Vincent was snuggled with the pillow.

Did he really have to go? It was just a hotel—four walls, a bed, and a door. The only frightening thing about it were his own associations. If he could talk himself down from them, then he could enjoy the rest of the morning with a man he genuinely wanted to spend time with.

Maybe, if he did, Vincent would take his heat again…

As thrilling as the thought was, the way Mal’s heart continued to race forbade it from becoming a reality. He let his gaze linger on Vincent a moment longer, then shook his head and left the bedside.

It was only supposed to have been for a night. He’d told himself as much. Now that their night together was over, it was time he focused on what mattered most. In a week’s time, the medication he was on would be at its peak effectiveness, and he’d be ready for the final round of his IVF treatment.

That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? A small, uncomplicated family he could love forever?

So why did the thought leave him hollow?

With nothing left to keep him in the hotel room, Mal headed for the door. He undid the lock and turned the handle carefully, then let himself out. At the other end of the hall were several young women who shrieked with laughter as they tried to fill their bathroom’s garbage can with ice. Mal didn’t approach them. He turned down the hallway and headed for the elevator.

It had been a fun weekend, but his nightmare had been a reminder that fun wasn’t always a great idea. Real life was infinitely more complex than a good time.

But still, as he watched the numbers on the display above the door tick downward, Mal couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if Vincent wasn’t visiting from afar. Could they have made it work?

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out into the lobby. What point was there in imagining what couldn’t be? What he needed to focus on was what he could achieve—the possible, instead of the impossible.

Mal left the hotel. There was a future out there waiting for him, and Vincent had given him the courage to find it.