Mark of Betrayal (Dark Secrets #3)(55)
Author: A.M. Hudson

“Okay then. Sorry.” I tucked my cheek into my shoulder, smiling sheepishly.

“Know what I do like, though?”

I shrugged.

“You.” He slid his fingertips under my head and lifted it slightly, bringing my lips up to meet his, but stopped there and whispered, “I’m the luckiest guy in the world, that I get to kiss you, hold you and love you, whenever I want.”

“Not yet, you don’t,” I said, touching my lips to his once. “We can’t be free to love each other until we rid the world of all its evil. Until then, we have to take small moments of bliss.”

“Small moments that last three minutes, huh?” He laughed, sliding his hand into the front of my undies.

* * *

The sheet felt like a satin kiss across my almost naked skin, drawing a smooth, tingling sensation down the length of my body as it came away, leaving me uncovered in the cool air. My eyes flicked open to an emerald green gaze, foreground to another night sky. Somehow I’d slept through all my responsibilities, all the things I wanted to run from, and been left in the arms of this man I loved so much. “You stayed with me?” I said.

But he shook his head. “No, sweet girl. I returned to you.”

I felt my eyes become smaller, focusing more carefully on his face; the shape of his eyes, the boyish gentility in his smile—the fact that he said ‘sweet girl’.

“Jason?”

“Perhaps.” His form disappeared from beside me, standing suddenly by the bed, his hand extended; I searched the tips of his fingers, the creases in his palm, the chains of destiny around his wrist, and the clear veins in his arm—all the way to his soft emerald eyes.

“Are you real?”

He nodded to his hand. “Touch.”

My fingertips shook, travelling across space and time to fold into his, and it felt so real, so warm and so solid, like he was really there, right beside me. He helped me to stand, and a tight, tingling pull permeated through my limbs, like I’d left something behind, something that fell from my soul.

“Care to dance?”

“I—I’m not dressed for a dance,” I said.

He only smiled and looked at my underwear and bra, then smoothed his hand gently down my face; my eyes closed under his touch, and my lips parted as his fingers tickled across them, cool against my warm breath. I felt dizzy, breathless from the craving.

“Open your eyes, Ara.”

Slowly, I looked down to a swirl of blue light, rising up in soft, smoky plumes, encircling my legs, hips, then waist. “Is this a dream?” I whispered, feeling the tingle over my bare skin.

Jason nodded toward my bed. I turned slightly and looked at the girl—curled up under the white silk sheet, breathing deep, peaceful breaths—sound asleep, alone.

“She—”

“Shh.” He held his finger across his lip, smiling behind it. “Don’t wake her.”

I smiled back at him. The blue light faded then, dissipating slowly, leaving behind a silky feel of fabric around my waist and over the tips of my toes, the colour yellow shining up at me in the shape of a ball gown. “How did you do that?”

“Do you like it?” he asked.

I ran my fingers over the waist and onto the full skirt. “I love it. It’s my favourite colour.”

“I know.” Jason reached up and placed something cool and sweetly-scented beside my ear, tucking my hair back with it. “And this is my favourite blossom.”

I drew a sharp intake of breath when I touched my fingers to the flower, feeling the solid, silky petals of a rose—so real, even its scent, as if we were actually standing right here, face to face, hip to hip, breath to breath. But we weren’t, and I knew that—as sure as I could see myself sleeping right behind me, I knew this was just a dream, and it made my stomach sink as much as it made me excited. Alone here, in this dream, nothing mattered; not the way I felt for David; not the way I felt for Jason.

I took his hand when he offered it, and noticed only then, as he led me into the now empty room across from my bed, that he was dressed formal, too, in a tuxedo. He looked so human and so sweetly handsome I nearly laughed. I caught sight of our reflection in the mirror above the mantle of the fireplace—the only objects left in the room—and smiled, thinking we’d fit perfectly in a turn-of-the-century romance novel.

We took step to a rhythm I couldn’t hear; Jason glided across the floor with the grace of a vampire, leading me with a kind of gentility that felt like floating. I was never much of a ballroom dancer, but in his arms, I was flying. The feel of his hand, flat against the small of my back, consumed everything in my mind, and the song I couldn’t hear, the song he sung to me with his steps, rose up from the back of my mind, giving life to the room. Colours swirled around us—masked strangers appearing, smiling, laughing, dancing just like Jason and I, but turning in the opposite direction, making the movement of our steps feel like a cog in a clock—ticking, spinning, purposeful, but different.

My bare feet felt each rise of the wooden floorboards, each grain of sand or brush of his shoes past my foot, and he kept me close, the grace and charm of his tall, straight shoulders, and the perfection of his eyes, locking to mine, made me want to stay here forever. And it wasn’t a trick. Not this time. This time, I felt this way because I cared for him—because I wanted him to be here, to dance with me.

In his eyes, I could see so many thoughts, so many things he wanted to say. But he lost the chance. He took his own life, and my mind, as much as I knew his face, could never put words in his mouth that had never been said. And that was the saddest thing about this dream; that in the morning, the daylight would steal all that was perfect in the night.

The music became louder, and I looked over at my sleeping body; she did not wake. She did not know what her heart was doing while she dreamed peacefully of her husband, whom she made love with only moments ago.

“I wish you weren’t just a dream,” I whispered, closing my eyes.

Jason held me closer, his fingers curling slightly against my hand. “What would you say to me—if I was not a dream?”

My eyelids fluttered as I rolled my face up to look at him. “Kiss me.”

His brow pulled tight and the song slowed again—a violin the only instrument. We stopped dancing and the others in the room faded away like quivering shadows, leaving Jason and I alone. He slowly rolled me back in his arm, tipping me toward the ground; my hair swept the rug where it hung down, the blossom falling from its place, landing alone on the floor by our feet. I looked back up into the green magnificence of his eyes—all the love, the soul, the pain, the truth—everything he was and suffered and cared for shining out through that gaze, pulling me into his world, begging me to save him from it. And I wanted to. If I could go back. If I could go back and be his—I would.