Page 9 of Our Dark Winter Wish

3

Pixie

Ishiver, the cold running the length of my back as a breeze travels over my skin.

But the warmth of the bed beneath me and the blissful way my body is utterly relaxed has me reluctant to move. And when I feel the soft touch of lips slowly trailing kisses up my spine I smile into my pillow. A warm tongue glides its way back down.

I roll over, sleepy and excited to see which one of my beautiful monsters is waking me up.

But when I open my eyes, the monster I see is not one of mine.

Not one I wish to keep, anyway.

Cole looks down at me with a twisted and deformed grin, his mouth three times too big and the corners curling inwards.

I scream. But nothing comes out. Not a single sound. My voice is gone, and no matter how hard I try, my body won’t move. It won’t cooperate with me at all!

A nightmare. It’s just a nightmare.

I lie beneath him, frozen in terror and revulsion as he pulls out a knife from his pocket.

I watch the blade slowly move closer and closer, my unblinking eyes unable to look away as he rests it over my collarbone.

And then he cuts.

I feel it carve into the bone.

It hits me.

I’m not fucking dreaming!

He counts.

‘One.’

My skin burns, and blood slides down past my neck.

Cut.

‘Two.’

The flashbacks begin. My mind fights against the tug of those vivid and agonising memories of my mother's execution. One of the three deaths I was forced to live through as if they were my own.

The door explodes, and a great black form crashes into the room.

He has to crouch to fit, but that doesn’t stop him from soaring towards us. His wings are enormous at his back, and his long, taloned fingers are outstretched.

Dorian has come in his shadow form.

But his fingers go through Cole as if he’s made of nothing but light and smoke.

He tries again. Nothing. But Cole has hold of me. His grip is unbearable and will likely leave bruises.

Dorian looks over his shoulder.

Shaw is sitting in a chair by the window. An open book on his lap and his makeshift bookmark consisting of a piece of cloth resting on its pages.

He’s asleep. Judging from the empty bottle of spirits beside him, more like drunk as fuck and passed out.

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