Light and the chatter of birds pulled Maeve from her slumber.

She squinted at the sun streaming in through the huge, open windows, gilding the interior of the cabin. Fresh forest air filled the room, though the warmth remained inside, thanks to the spell on the windows.

Maeve closed her eyes again for a moment to simply enjoy the peace of the morning before reality could steamroll her. The cabin still stood. No more nightmares. No more fire. The bed was soft and welcoming, her body loose and rested, and she floated on the vanishing mist of a dream, impressions and feelings lingering.

She made a contented noise in the back of her throat and tried to remember the dream. The sensations remained so intense, her every cell felt branded with them—even though she couldn’t recall a single detail. Just this overall drifting feeling…pleasant yet powerful. Weaving itself into every thought, every breath, an underlying rhythm she found herself chasing after.

She loved it when this happened, when the fragmented memory of an elusive dream would whisper at her throughout the day, would color everything and change the way she walked, talked, thought, because the feeling wouldn’t let her go, and she’d find herself pausing mid-sentence, a piece of memory suddenly returned, tumbling her further into reminiscence.

With a yawn, she eventually rolled out of bed. She showered again last night before going to sleep because ash still coated her skin, and she didn’t want to dirty the sheets. And she’d thoroughly beaten the pajama set to remove any remnants of soot before slipping into bed.

She opened the door to the veranda, and stopped short, studying the tray of covered food and the pile of clothes in front of her feet.

A piece of paper was tucked under the thermos that—by the faint trace of its scent—contained coffee. She picked up the thermos and the note, opening the latter.

I will meet you here at twelve. Be ready.

— A

She jerked as a detail of the elusive dream flashed before her inner eye, flooded her with a sensual memory that short-circuited her brain.

Her fingers running over dark bronze skin. Heat and friction, murmured teasing. Lips on her shoulder, trailing down to her breasts. She shivered and burned—for all the right reasons. Shadowy green eyes intent in a face of harsh angles, solely focused on her. “I want to see that wildfire of yours.”

The thermos slipped from her hand. Hit the floor with a metallic clank, bounced and landed with another thud on her foot.

“Ouch!”

She jumped back with a wince, bit her lip and fell on her butt, holding her foot to alleviate the pain. The hurt, however, wasn’t sharp enough to eclipse the surge of tangled emotions at the realization that—

“Oh. My. Gods.”

She buried her face in her hands. Shook her head. Didn’t help. She still remembered.

I had an erotic dream about Arawn.

Heat shot into her neck, her cheeks, her ears, and she half expected the cabin to catch fire after all. Would serve her right.

This was not possible. She couldn’t—why would she—?

“What is wrong with me?”

With a groan, she thumped her forehead against the hardwood floor. More images from the dream floated up, turned her blood to liquid fire, heat blooming between her legs. She couldn’t shake the desire hammering under her skin, the pleasure at his imagined touch.

Her heart went quiet as a realization swept through her. In that dream, while being intimate in a situation that was a minefield of potential triggers, she was…completely free of fear.

Slowly, she sat up, staring unseeing out at the veranda and the forest beyond, her mind numb with surprise. After the warehouse, the only dreams she had involving sexual action were the nightmares that woke her up soaked in a cold sweat and sent her running to the bathroom to puke her guts out. As twisted as it was, her mind apparently conflated sex—the good kind—with the terror and pain she experienced shackled to that bed, unable to differentiate between the two.

She’d expected the first dream of consensual sex to be fraught with the same kind of fear and hesitation she struggled with in her waking life whenever her thoughts turned to intimacy. But in this dream…there was only lust, and pleasure. Nothing but sensual hunger and open enjoyment, and the ability to let herself fall—knowing he’d catch her.

Something tracked down her cheeks. When she touched it, her finger came away wet. She hauled in a shaky breath, her chest aching. For what she’d lost, for what had been ripped from her. That kind of trust and easiness, the ability to sink into intimacy, untainted by fear and the dark specter of her trauma. Would she ever get it back?

This dream was cruel. A taste of what she might never reclaim, mocking her with how easy it seemed. She craved it so much, her entire body shook, her heart clenching in pain.

I want this.

But not with Arawn. Never him.

She rose to her feet, balled her hands to fists. He was all sorts of wrong for her. She could never…the very idea was ridiculous.

Liar, a tiny voice inside her piped up, and pointed to the fresh memory of her dream, of skin on skin, and dark power stroking her senses with a mental caress, of rough fingers running up her thighs and—

“Oh, would you stop!”

She made a frustrated sound and scrubbed her face.

No, even if she was ready to reclaim her sexuality, she should do so with a man who was patient, loving, understanding, kind, gentle, and safe. Arawn couldn’t be more opposite. The surprising glimpses she caught of a different side of him notwithstanding, he lived and breathed ruthless power, oozing authority and dominance, and an underlying aura of danger. She should definitely not be thinking about inviting him to her bed.

All that aside, he also seemed to be either extremely long-lived or even immortal. No one really knew, and rumors were all she had to go on here, but one thing was crystal clear—to him, human-length lives like hers had to be little more than a blip on the radar, so ephemeral as to be hardly worthy of attention. Being intimate with her would only be a fleeting pastime for him, a passing fancy maybe. But for Maeve…it would mean a hell of a lot more.

She couldn’t do casual sex. Lily had always been good at that, and Maeve had secretly admired her ability to enjoy brief, strings-free intimacy. For Maeve, though, opening her body to someone required not just desire, but strong affection and deep trust, which took time to build. And that hadn’t changed, was now even more paramount in light of what she’d been through.

No way could she jump into a casual sexual relationship now, and especially not for the first intimate contact after her torture. But being with Arawn could never be more than that, and she refused to be an immortal’s short-lived plaything.

So, yeah, that stupid sex dream could just suck it up and stop haunting her already.

Huffing out a breath, she picked up the thermos and the note again, and paused. There was something else written on it she didn’t notice before.

PS: Lucía will keep you company tonight. For today you will have another guard, who will stay out of sight unless you wish otherwise. His name is Kelior, and he is within shouting distance if you need anything.

Her stomach cramped. A male guard. Her anxiety spiked at the mere thought of an unknown man in her vicinity.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, tried to calm her nerves. If Arawn picked the guy to guard her, he’d be safe. No need to get all scared.

Still, she couldn’t help scanning the surrounding trees for any sign of the male’s presence while she scooped up the clothes, plopped them on the bed, and carried the tray of food to the table. Sitting down in the breakfast nook, she uncovered the plates—and froze.

All the things she liked for breakfast, including hash browns with applesauce, cooked rolled oats with honey and blueberries, and cut pieces of honeydew melon. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

Arawn sure had learned about her through the eyes of his sentinels guarding her the past half year. What else did he know about her that she wouldn’t have guessed? How much had he seen of her, and how much figured out?

Well, he definitely knows how to play your body like a harp, that tiny, annoying voice inside her spoke up again.

“That was a dream!” she shouted and thumped her head against the table.