So, I have a confession, and it's kinda embarrassing. Starting when I was in middle school, I learned how to control my dreams. Now, that's not so bad in itself. It's more common than most people think. In my case, it was probably one of the first manifestations of my magic, though I couldn't have known it at the time. But what's embarrassing is that…well…I was a teenager with raging hormones, living in a home so full of kids that "privacy" wasn't even in our vocabulary, and I had the world's strictest parents. Naturally, lucid dreaming became my outlet for…um… let's say, personal gratification.

And honestly, it was pretty awesome, if you ignore the ethical implications. (I guess you could say that about anything, really.) I mean, imagine falling asleep in your bed and dreaming yourself onto a boat in the Caribbean with both Han Solo and Indiana Jones.

Yes, the characters, not the actor. And no, it doesn't make sense, but damn that was a good dream.

Ahem.

Anyway…That sort of thing was probably harmless. But when I started including real people, people I knew, it messed with my head a little bit. Sometimes I would forget that a real-world person hadn't actually hooked up with me. Boys at school, my ceramics teacher, the cute barista with the gold nose ring… a certain tall, handsome, and mysterious wizard…

It probably goes without saying that Harry showed up in my dreams a lot. It wasn't always sexual; sometimes it was just romantic. Like…wandering the streets of Paris with him at dusk, for example. But to be clear, Harry was definitely in the other kind of dreams, too… The kind that made me wake up breathless and wet; the ones that left me physically sated but emotionally empty, aching for something I could never have.

I grew out of the dreaming thing eventually. I got older and wiser, and started to feel guilty about objectifying people—especially Harry. By that time, he was pretty much the only person I dreamed about, and I realized that it was unhealthy to subject myself to that sort of thing rather than accepting reality. I also lived under a cloud of constant worry that Harry would find out about it. We poked around in each other's heads a lot as part of my training, and I would have died of embarrassment if he ever stumbled across my "memories" of us together. God, just thinking about that possibility still makes me cringe. And then, when my life sort of went off the rails for a while, I barely had time to sleep at all. My priorities changed to guarding my dreams rather than controlling them, and I fell out of practice.

I'm a little ashamed to admit that becoming the Winter Lady is what prompted me to start up again. Harry withstood the temptations of a Denarian for years; I, on the other hand, barely made it six months as a Faerie princess before I gave in to…well, myself, I guess. But in my defense, I wasn't just a hormonal teenager anymore. I was the Winter Lady, and not many people truly understand what that mantle does to a girl. Most assume that the Fae connection to nature means trees, weather, growing things. Sometimes, that's true. But other things are natural, too. Things like coldblooded predators, or rot and decay, or the urge to procreate.

In my case, it was the latter, pretty exclusively and very, very intensely. Words like "libido" and "sex drive" don't even really apply. Since I assumed the mantle of Winter, sex felt as essential as breathing; the need was constant, just a part of me, as natural and intuitive as my magic. That had been tough for me to get used to, given the upbringing I'd had.

But not as tough as dealing with the fact that, despite all of that, I could never even have sex.

It makes a twisted sort of sense, if you know anything about Winter Law and what the Lady has to do. But it sucked, big time, and I quickly gained a new sympathy for my predecessor. Maeve had been crazy, but she'd had reasons. I like to think that I'm a little better suited for the role than she was; I had the training and the mental control to keep myself in check most of the time, and to handle the constant disappointment of unsated desires. But even so…

Sometimes it was all just too much. So when I started to get desperate, when the accumulation of need and denial got so distracting that I couldn't do my job, I remembered my old guilty pleasure and found relief in my dreams. There's a trick to it, though: you have to forget that it's a dream.

It wasn't a perfect solution, unfortunately. The Winter mantle was still there when I woke up, still as hungry as ever. But there was a bit of mental solace that came after I indulged my dream self, enough to clear my head and let me face the never-ending hunger with more resolve. On the rare occasions that I let it happen, it usually bought me a few months of normalcy—whatever that means nowadays—before things got really bad again.

I could tell things were getting bad on the night I camped in Iceland. I'd spent most of the day hiking up the side of a volcano—couldn't tell you which one, literally, because I can't pronounce it—and though I'd been alone, I'd been thinking obsessively about the handsome Sidhe lord that I'd encountered in the Nevernever that morning. Tall and almost gawky in a long leather coat, with perfectly mussed dark hair and a shadow of a beard; dark eyes that hinted at intriguing secrets. Of course, he was a trap, so obvious that it was laughable. Lady Molly has a type, and all the Winter Court knows it. Heck, maybe he was someone's idea of a joke. But that knowledge wasn't enough to stop me from wanting him anyway; I spent all day convincing myself not to turn back and find him again.

I was grumbling to myself when I finally stopped for the night, pulled a sheltering dome of ice and packed snow up around myself with a flick of my wrist. "Don't be an idiot," I muttered, trying for the zillionth time to put thoughts of the Faerie Harry lookalike—Faerry, heh—out of my head. I shrugged out of my backpack and plopped my rear end down onto a snowy chair that materialized underneath me. In the dark, I dug around in my bag by feel, and pulled out a king-sized Rice Krispy Treat.

"I just want a little company. Is it idiotic to want to invite him along?"

"Uh, yeah, dummy," I replied to myself around a mouthful of sweet, crunchy, chewy goodness. "Hellooo? You'd grind him into hellhound chow before we got ten feet down the road. Especially with the way you're feeling now."

"Seemed like he was asking for it," I muttered sullenly.

"Ick…What a gross thing to say."

I finished off my dinner and folded the wrapper carefully before tucking it away. "You know I'm right. Every Sidhe in existence knows what I am, and what I'm capable of. If he didn't want to die by Winter Lady sex, what the heck was he doing there, looking like that?"

"Still gross," I insisted. I tried to shove down the pure wanting, and the mental images, that surged up with the mention of "dying by Winter Lady sex." I wondered if I was hungry enough to fish around for the sleeve of Oreos buried in my pack. "And he could have been sent by anyone, even Mab. As a test."

"Pfft. Maybe he was a gift."

"Now that is idiotic." I decided against the Oreos, and laid down in the snow with my backpack as a lumpy pillow. "You know we don't do gifts."

I snorted and let my eyes drift shut.

No, I didn't wish myself good night. That would just be crazy.

I lay there in silence for a little while. I tried to ignore the warmth that was building, pulsing through me, pooling in my core and tightening things deep inside me. I tried to ignore the intrusive thoughts, the visions of doing unspeakable things with that nameless Sidhe who looked like my former boss… and the inevitable thoughts that followed: even more unspeakable things with my actual former boss.

Ugh. I really needed to have my head in the game the next morning, and I knew from experience that it would be a lot harder unless I addressed my…problem. And I wouldn't even be able to fall asleep until I…

"Okay, fine," I sighed, undoing the buttons of my hiking pants. I got it over with quickly, heedless of the way my own moans spilled into the arctic night—no one was around for miles. It bought me a little reprieve; it wouldn't last long, but it was enough to let me relax, turn my focus inward and prepare my mind to dream. I let myself fade into sleep, deciding to go along with whatever my subconscious cooked up for me.

I opened my eyes and let out a little gasp of shock, like someone long dead had just appeared alive in front of me. In a way, that's what happened.

I was standing in Harry's old basement apartment.

In reality, it didn't exist anymore. It had been replaced by an actual castle, and that's probably the least weird thing that's happened in Harry's orbit recently. But here it was in my dream, just as I remembered it.

I glanced around, taking in the sight with a bittersweet shiver of nostalgia. The layers of faded rugs on the concrete floor, the worn armchair and well-used couch, the old wooden bookshelves stuffed with paperbacks. The vintage Star Wars poster hanging next to the bedroom door. The fireplace, in front of which I had learned a very embarrassing and painful first lesson as Harry's apprentice.

There was no fire burning there now, no candles flickering anywhere. Light filtered through the small cellar windows—early afternoon, maybe? It felt like summer; there was a cool humidity in the air, the kind that makes you glad to be in a basement during a sweltering Midwestern heat wave. It was a nice change from my Winter life. So was the absence of my mantle, left behind in the waking world.

The apartment didn't seem empty. The rickety little table near the kitchen alcove held an open can of Coke and a book that was propped open halfway through, pages down, creasing the spine. Harry's leather duster hung by the front door, and his staff leaned against the corner. This could have been one of dozens of summer afternoons that I'd spent here, learning how to control the abilities that I'd never asked for. Without thinking, I reached for my magic, ready to reactivate the wards on the door—then I remembered that I had no magic here, and I hadn't come in through the door anyway.

I should go, I thought reluctantly. I hadn't intended to dream this. I had decided a long time ago that Harry couldn't be in my dreams anymore, and it would be easy to switch to something less personal. I could go anywhere I wanted…

But I really just wanted to be right here. It felt so good to be back in this place. It was like coming home, back to a time when things were normal.

I found myself crossing the room to the open trapdoor that led to the subbasement. As I lowered myself carefully onto the wobbly stepladder, I realized what I was wearing: sandals; a pleated, white skirt that was just barely long enough for decency; and a fluttery, blue tank top that laced up the front. Very summery, and definitely not my style these days. The old me would have worn it, though. I paused for half a second, then decided to keep the outfit. Like the apartment, it just felt nice to revisit the past.

I made the skirt a little longer, though. For climbing up and down ladders, I needed a better balance between cute and practical.

God, I'm starting to sound like my mom. When did I get so old?

There was a candle burning in the lab, just one, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. "Harry?"

He was sitting on the old wooden stool, leaning on his elbows on the Lake Michigan side of Little Chicago. The lone candle stood on his far side, illuminating his silhouette. I couldn't see his expression when he turned his head, but I could hear a faint smile in his voice. "Hey, Grasshopper."

I felt a little thrill at the nickname. He didn't call me that very often anymore. Then I frowned, because his voice was also more subdued than normal, almost sad, and I hadn't expected that. I made my way around the edge of the lab, frowning even more at the empty shelves that lined the walls. In real life, they had overflowed with magical trinkets, obscure potion ingredients, ancient books…Oh, and that weird skull that Harry refused to acknowledge even existed. Strange, that the dream version of the lab was so empty. The only thing that seemed normal was Little Chicago, dominating the center of the tiny room.

Then I looked again; the pewter model did not seem normal after all. It had been destroyed in the house fire a few years back, but somehow this was a current model. It reflected the damage done to the city by Ethniu's rampage and the Battle of Chicago, still not even close to being restored: skyscrapers toppled, buildings reduced to melted blobs, pockmarks and holes marring the surfaces of those still standing. Weird.

Harry was staring down at the devastation without really seeing it, his hands folded together over Grant Park. He was wearing dark jeans with a faded AC/DC t-shirt under his "lab coat"—the plaid flannel bathrobe that kept him warm in the chilly subbasement. I came around to his side of the table and leaned against it. "What's going on, boss?"

He glanced up at me, and I saw the way his eyes lingered on my chest before he caught himself. Score one for The Rack, I thought with an inward grin, although it seemed like cheating to keep score in a dream where I could make anything happen.

"Nothing, really," he said with a sigh. "Just thinking. Wondering how things got so…" He waved a hand vaguely, somehow managing to include the little metal city and the entirety of existence with that one motion.

I studied him for a minute. My dream self didn't have the same psychic sensitivity that I did in the real world, and there wouldn't be anything to sense from a dream-Harry, anyway. Like the absence of my Winter mantle, that was an adjustment that always took me a few moments to make. I had to settle for visual only: his dark eyes looked a little more haunted than usual, and his body language seemed…vulnerable, somehow. It wasn't normal for him, and it bothered me. Why had I dreamed that up?

"You okay?" I asked softly.

He gazed down at the miniature ruins of the city for a long time without answering, and I wondered if he'd even heard my question. Eventually, he sighed and rubbed absently at one eyebrow with his thumb before summoning a tired smile.

"It's good to see you, Molls," he murmured, sending another little thrill through me.

I should go, I told myself again. Harry was off-limits; and this wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind, anyway. He looked so lost, so forlorn, that all I really wanted to do was comfort him, to help him understand that he wasn't alone. What kind of terrible person fantasizes that, of all things? I resolved to have a serious chat with my subconscious about this, and prepared to abandon the dream.

The dark lab wavered around me, briefly fading in and out of my vision in time with my heartbeat as I reached for consciousness. I felt the surge of Winter's lust returning, so intense that I froze, overwhelmed with need, caught halfway between dreaming and waking. And there was a wave of guilt, too—Harry needed me, and I was leaving him there alone. Of course, it was just a dream, but even the negative emotions like guilt felt real. I didn't want to wake up with the memory of abandoning him like this.

Screw it, I thought. I released my hold on consciousness and sank back into the dream, letting the indistinct vision of the lab solidify around me again.

"It's good to see you, too," I said softly. Before I could change my mind, I reached out to cradle Harry's face with one hand. A muscle twitched in his jaw beneath my palm, beneath his perpetual stubble that rasped against my skin. He closed his eyes for a second, then met my gaze. Even here, even now, that direct eye contact came with the same little shock that it always did: the skipped heartbeat like I was an awkward middle-schooler, and the instinctive desire to stare into his eyes far longer than was normally polite.

I indulged that last part, because I could. Harry gazed back and lifted a hand to mirror me, laying his hand along my cheek, his thumb stroking gently. We sat like that for a second, silent and content—at least, I was content until I remembered that this wasn't real, and that it never would be, no matter how much I longed for it. That triggered an ugly rush of petulant, disappointed jealousy.

See what I mean? Unhealthy.

I drew a deep breath and, with some effort, reminded myself that I was lucky to be able to pretend like this. No, it wasn't real, but it was still pretty damn cool. And in the morning I'd be back on mission, focused on my job, which was the most important thing. I pushed away the unpleasant emotions and tried to concentrate on the good ones: the flutter of anticipation in my stomach, for example.

I'm not sure how much of that struggle showed on my face, but it didn't seem to matter. Harry had closed his eyes, leaning a little into my hand. I moved forward, closing the space between us. With him seated on the stool, he was actually a little shorter than me. He opened his eyes then and watched me bend toward him, my hair falling to frame my face.

"Molls…don't," he breathed, without conviction. "I can't…"

"It's okay," I whispered back. "It isn't real, Harry." And I willed him to be okay with it.

I know, I know. If I had tried anything like that in the real world, at least before joining Winter, I'd have been executed by the Wardens. And deserved it. But the Laws of Magic don't apply in dreams. This wasn't magic; it was just what I chose to dream about.

Harry's fingers tightened at the back of my neck and drew me down into a kiss. It was hesitant, careful, and I kept it that way because it felt real.

Then Harry deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping past my lips, and I stopped thinking altogether. God, he tasted so good… He stroked my hair lightly, framing my face carefully with both hands, as if he were afraid that I would dissolve away under his touch.

We parted a moment later, and he let out a quiet sigh. "Wow…I've wanted to do that for a long time."

That was news to me. A sweet, delighted warmth flooded through me, and I couldn't hold back a grin. "Me too."

Harry's mouth quirked in an answering smile. "I know," he said. He let his hands drop to my shoulders; one hand slid down my arm to take hold of my fingers. He looked down at our joined hands, ran his thumb over my skin.

"What now?" He asked softly.

I hesitated. There was a very specific reason I'd been dreaming tonight, but nothing was going as expected.

"What do you need, Harry?" I murmured.

He swallowed roughly; I could feel the motion beneath my hand. He turned his head slightly to press his lips against my palm, and held there for a long moment, as if deep in thought. Or maybe reluctant to answer my question.

"We shouldn't," he whispered against my hand.

It doesn't matter, this isn't real, I almost reassured him again. But the words caught in my throat, because I really, really wished it was, and I couldn't bear to voice the truth. And because, if this was going to do any good, I needed to forget that it was only a dream.

Then Harry raised his eyes to mine again, and I didn't need my abilities to sense the shift in him. I saw the change, the moment he let his walls down. I saw him embrace what he was feeling; saw the relief that came, finally, with acceptance. And I saw need that opened like a bottomless abyss in his eyes, a longing for me that mirrored everything I had felt for him since my first hopeless teenage crush.

Oh. My. God. I think my heart stopped for a second. I had never seen anything so intensely, devastatingly sexy as That Look. Subconscious Molly knew what she was doing, after all.

I kissed him again, surrendering fully, letting my awareness that it was a dream fade away. Harry kissed back cautiously, as if he still didn't quite believe this was happening. Then he inhaled sharply and tugged me closer, wrapping me in his arms, and I melted against his chest with a soft whimper. His hands stroked across my shoulder blades, slid down the curves of my waist. One hand slipped under my shirt and splayed across bare skin at the base of my spine, pressing me against him as if he worried that I would back away.

Right…Like I was going anywhere.

After a long moment, we eased apart. Still holding me close, Harry reached his other hand up to tuck back a strand of my hair. His fingers grazed gently down the edge of my ear, found the end of my serpent tattoo and began to trace its length. A little gasp escaped me when he followed the touch with his lips, pressing a kiss in the sensitive spot just below my ear, then continuing lower. His mouth followed my tattoo down the side of my throat, over my collarbone, across the top of my chest. His fingers skimmed lightly over my breasts, found the laces of my shirt, and then he lifted his head to look up at me.

I nodded wordlessly. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight, hinting at a smile before he lowered his lips to my skin again. He tugged at the laces of my shirt, undoing them with such patient restraint that I wanted to scream and tear the shirt off myself. This was all going so much faster, and yet so, so much slower, than I had ever imagined—but hot damn, it was amazing.

I didn't tear the shirt, but I did help Harry along by wriggling a little. With the laces loosened, the tank top slipped off my shoulder, baring one side of my chest, and Harry made a soft sound of appreciation that sent a shiver coursing through me. Gently, he hooked his fingers into the lacy bra that my dream self had chosen and pulled that down, too, then closed his lips around my nipple.

Oh my God... I moaned helplessly, sinking one hand into his hair and clinging desperately to his shoulder with the other—I felt like my knees were about to give out. Harry steadied me with one hand still at the small of my back; the other slid down lower, caressing the curve of my ass and tugging me closer.

I shoved at his lab coat, pushing it down his shoulders until he paused long enough to shrug out of it. That gave me a moment to readjust; I inched as close as I could get between his knees, noting the way his breath caught when my hip nudged against his erection. My hands moved almost on their own, stroking down his front, tracing the firm muscles beneath his t-shirt, then dipped lower. My fingertips grazed over his thighs, brushing along his cock—rigid and urgent beneath his jeans, just begging for me to wrap my hand around it. I obliged, and Harry shuddered, breath hissing through his teeth at the touch. He tugged me down into another kiss, and this one was more desperate as we both got a little more handsy. I could hear Harry's breathing grow uneven and fervent as I stroked him through the denim. God, I needed this… just wanted to climb on top of him and—

Harry stood abruptly, suddenly looming. He looked down at me silently, with a fire burning in his gaze that made my breath catch a little. One little step, and he was pressed up against me, blazing hot against my skin in the damp coolness of the lab. Another step, and I was backed up against the table, trapped between him and Little Chicago. He kissed me again, fiercely, and before I realized what was happening, he'd hoisted me onto the table, onto the narrow strip of bare wood that we'd once painted blue to represent the lake. It was hardly big enough to sit on, but that was fine with me—it meant Harry had to stay close to keep me from sliding off, and he didn't seem to have any problem with that.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, reveling in the solid feel of his body against mine. His hands gripped my thighs, then slid slowly upwards, under my skirt. I wriggled around again, helping him drag my panties—matching lace; good job, Dream Molly—down over my hips, off my legs. We were still kissing as his hands returned, this time tracing a feather-light line up the inside of my thigh. The kiss fell apart when Harry reached higher and found exactly how wet I was for him; he shuddered against me, his mouth going slack with a soft groan.

I leaned my forehead on his and whimpered as his fingertips explored my flesh with a lot more dexterity than anything I could manage at the moment. I fumbled awkwardly with his belt, then the fly of his jeans. My hands weren't cooperating now, and all I could focus on was the feeling of his slickened fingers gliding in and out of me, teasing gently at just the right spot to make me writhe helplessly against him. Eventually, finally, I got into his pants, shoved his jeans and boxers down far enough to free the hard length of him. I'd always imagined having more time to explore him—preferably with my mouth—but we were both too far gone; too impatient and needy for that. His hips twitched forward, thrusting into my grip as I closed my hand around him, and we were so close already…it was so easy, so natural, to keep moving until he'd shoved my skirt up around my waist and pressed the head of his cock against me, inside me, just barely.

A breathless pause—and then he pressed deeper, slowly, steadying my hips with both hands. I clutched at his arms, helpless to do anything except savor the exquisitely sweet pressure as he sank into me.

Neither of us had spoken a real word since he'd given me That Look. I don't know why we had been so quiet; it wasn't like anyone would overhear us. Maybe it was a manifestation of my subconscious shame at living out this fantasy when I knew I shouldn't; or maybe I just wanted to focus on the non-verbal sounds. Those had been pretty hot. But that was nothing compared to what happened when Harry did speak, finally: a single word that almost tipped me over the edge immediately.

"Molly…" he breathed reverently as he finally paused, as deep inside me as he could be. I gasped, shuddering as if he had Named me, although that wasn't quite right. This was different, but it shared the same sort of soul-wrenching intensity. There was so much behind the way he spoke my name.

Longing. Joy. Disbelief. Bittersweet regret. And…

Briefly, distantly, I cursed the fact that I couldn't just sense his emotions. There was too much in his voice, in the way he looked at me for that endless moment…Too much for me to untangle it all even though I tried to, desperately, with his body filling mine and his voice still ringing in my ears—

And then it was gone, pushed out of my head by a wave of pleasure as he withdrew a little and came back deep again, pulling a strangled sound from my throat. Harry gave me a lopsided smile, watching my expression as he did it again, easing back a little more, giving me a little more. God… nothing had ever felt so good. I managed to recover my voice, but not words, and I hoped that my whimpered cries would be taken for encouragement.

They must have been, for he didn't stop. I shuddered in his arms, overwhelmed by everything: his scent, and the heat of his skin, and his breath rasping at my ear, and that surge of his emotions shining in my memory, a mystery I should have been able to solve…

And of course, the physical sensations too, which were more overwhelming than everything else. Harry fucked me slowly against Little Chicago, and honestly, it wasn't the first time I'd ever dreamed that, but this was so intense. He buried his face in my shoulder and took me with hard, steady strokes, and his unhurried pace was exactly what I needed…And when he began to move faster, an urgency sneaking into his rhythm, that was perfect, too.

I clung to him as the pleasure grew, building on itself with each thrust and each breathless moan, until I was so close, I swear I could see stars in my vision. "Please, Harry, please," I gasped, finally finding words just in time to cut off with a choked sound as my climax rocked through me. I shook against him, lost in it all; he came with a low cry moments later, shuddering, hands clinging to me as tightly as if I would save him from drowning. For an endless instant, we were suspended there together in a blinding, shared ecstasy that I…

That I had never dreamed of before.

Holy mind-blowing orgasms, Batman. Seemed like Subconscious Molly had learned a few things since the last time I'd tried this.

We came down slowly, still wordless, listening to each other's breathing slow to a normal rate in the quiet room. Eventually, Harry lifted his head and kissed my forehead.

"Okay?" He whispered gently, smoothing back my hair.

Hell yes, I tried to say, but there seemed to be a short circuit between my brain and my mouth. I settled for a reassuring smile, and he gave me a little squeeze before moving back and lifting me down from the table. Ever chivalrous, he carefully straightened my skirt, tugged my shirt back into place before putting his own clothes back in order. The thoughtful tenderness in the gesture made my stomach do a little flip, even after everything that we'd just done.

Awareness of the dream was starting to return. I could feel it sneaking into the back of my mind, a reminder that this amazing night was all in my head. I seized Harry in both hands and pulled him down for one last kiss, hoping to prolong the illusion just a little more.

His lips lingered sweetly on mine for a long moment. When it was over, he smiled, eyes searching mine, fingers caressing my cheek. "Molls…" he murmured, again with a depth of emotion that I couldn't even begin to interpret.

And then… I saw the reverse of That Look from before. He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened, his walls were back, cutting me off from even a hint of what he was feeling. It hit like a physical blow, painfully abrupt, and I had a moment of confusion, wondering why my subconscious would ruin the dream by showing me that.

Harry straightened and rubbed both hands over his face with a sigh. "Man," he mumbled. "I've really got to get these dreams under control."

Record scratch.

A sick, leaden feeling dropped into my stomach.

Oh… Oh, no.

Oh, shit.

It took me a few more tries to find my voice. "Harry," I said, desperately trying to keep the trembling out of it. "Whose dream do you think this is?"

What I wanted him to say, what I willed him to say, was "Yours, duh!" with his goofy grin, the one that somehow always made everything better. And if he were a construct of my dream, that's exactly what he would have done.

Instead, he eyed me warily. "That's weird," he muttered, almost to himself.

Oh, shit.

I stared back at him blankly, mind racing, wondering what I could say to salvage this without him realizing. But it was too late; I saw him reach the same conclusion that I had. He took an unsteady step backward, eyes going wide, and even in the dim light I could see the color drain from his face.

"Hell's—" he began, and then he disappeared altogether, probably having startled himself awake in horror.

Funny how dreams can turn into nightmares so suddenly.

Oh, God—what had I done?

Panic seized me, clamped my throat shut, squeezed at my chest. Clawing my way out of the dream, I fled back into consciousness. I jerked upright, scattering loose snow, and the mantle returned to my awareness in a rush. In moments like this, it almost felt like a literal mantle, an invisible cloak that settled around my shoulders, shielding the old, anxious me within the Winter Lady's power. I didn't always welcome it, but this time, I embraced it. The mantle didn't care about guilt, or regret, or an impending panic attack, and I desperately needed Winter's strength to help ground myself while I processed what just happened.

Harry Dresden.

And I.

We had…

It was only a dream. It hadn't really happened. But in some sense, it had. We'd both been there, both experienced it. We shared that memory now.

"Ohmygod, ohmygod," I moaned into my hands, which were clamped over my mouth in shock.

I know what you're thinking. How bad could it be? You always wanted that, didn't you?

Yeah, obviously, but…not like this. I knew Harry didn't want to be with me. I'd known it since I was a dumb teenager. And he had tried to refuse tonight, too; he'd only given in because he thought I was part of his dream. Because I told him it wasn't real.

I'd tricked him. I would never do that on purpose; I just hadn't realized it was actually him. But there was no excuse. I should never have been there at all. I was the one who could control my dreams, who had the power to change it or to leave… The responsibility to make the right choice was mine, and I'd failed utterly.

Given my questionable history, I knew exactly how it looked. I'd used my skills with psychomancy to manipulate Harry into sleeping with me against his consent, and it didn't matter if I'd intended to or not. It had happened.

I wasn't worried about the White Council; I was laughably far outside their jurisdiction now. I didn't even care about Winter. This wasn't the sort of thing that Winter Law was concerned with. But the thought that I had betrayed Harry, of all people, and in such a horrifically intimate way, made me sick to my stomach.

Like, literally sick. Regal Winter mantle be damned—I leaned over and vomited up my dinner into the snow. Good thing I hadn't eaten the Oreos.

When it was over, I grabbed a handful of clean snow to scrub my face. Then I sat there staring blindly into the darkness. How the hell had this happened? And what was I supposed to do now?

"Fuck," I whispered. I had to make this right, somehow, but I had no idea what to do. My head was spinning. Things might never be right between Harry and me again. Seriously, how could I possibly fix this?

How could I have been so stupid?