He was almost to the Guardian dormitories when he heard someone call his name.

"Ivashkov—"

He paused turning his head as two young Moroi caught up to him. They looked vaguely familiar— one was tall, with bronze-colored hair, rather handsome, despite the arrogant look on his face. The other was shorter and downright chubby, wearing an idiotic grin that spread from ear to ear.

"Yes?" Adrian stared at them, impatient.

The taller boy—he thought the kid was a Zeklos—smiled. "You going to see your girlfriend?"

Adrian pulled out a cigarette, pondering the question. Obviously this was one of the morons who'd been spreading the rumors about his 'illicit' hookup with Petrov. "Nah, you're mom's busy tonight."

They hadn't been expecting that. The fat kid made a sound like he was trying not to laugh, earning him a glare from his friend. Zeklos narrowed his eyes, taking a step towards Adrian in a decidedly threatening manner.

"You're real funny Ivashkov, but my mom's not really your type. She's too classy, you prefer dried up old bitches like Petrov or blood whores like Hathaway."

His anger rose in a sudden hot wash of red. He'd heard about how these two assholes had tormented Rose. The kid talked big, but Adrian was willing to bet he was a coward at heart. He straightened, towering over the younger Moroi by several inches.

"You've got a big mouth." He cocked his head, studying his opponent. "Maybe it's time someone did something about it."

He wasn't a fighter, but had been blessed with a muscular build. Funny how his body was in such good shape, even though he abused it on a daily basis. Zeklos's face changed, as he realized he might have bitten off more than he could chew. Still he tried to save face.

"What're you gonna do about it?"

Adrian smirked. "You're acting as if you don't think I'll hit you. Are you really that stupid?" He realized that was the kid's game. Pick on people who can't—or won't fight back. That's it exactly, isn't it? You harass Rose because she'll get expelled if she stands up for herself. You piss me off, thinking I won't react for fear of getting the boot from Kirova."

"Nah, I just think you're too much of a pussy to do anything."

"You're wrong on both counts. I'm an Ivashkov, which means I'm above the rules." With that, he drew back, slamming his fist into the boy's chin, knocking him off his feet.

Zeklos stared up at him, stunned. "You can't.. You can't do that!"

"Looks like I just did." He switched his attention to the plump boy who was staring at him, amazement written all over his chubby little face. "You planning to fuck with me too?"

"Lord Ivashkov? Is there a problem?" A thickly accented voice called out of the darkness. He glanced at the newcomer. It was… Emil—a guardian from Romania that he'd met at the resort.

"This young man was making disparaging remarks about Guardian Petrov and Rose Hathaway. He needed a lesson on how to treat women." The red hot anger was slowly receding, his breathing slowing down to a bearable level. Damn, Rose's temper must be rubbing off on him. He hadn't been in a fist fight in… well, ever.

"Really?" The guardian's eyebrows rose as he tried to hide a smile. "Perhaps the headmistress would be interested in hearing about this. Unless, of course, you would care to rescind your comments, Mr. Zeklos?"

The boy glared at them, getting to his feet. "Fine. Whatever. I—"

Adrian cut him off. "As amusing as I'm sure your apology will be, I'm bored now."

Nodding to Emil, he brushed past the two boys, altering his destination. He was no longer in the mood for company. After defending her honor, the only thing he wanted right now was to see Rose. And since it was after curfew, the only way he could do that would be to visit her in her dreams.

Before pulling her in, he constructed the backdrop, pulling every last detail of the setting he had in mind from one of his favorite memories. He wanted to share something beautiful with her, hoping it would make her happy, if only for a little while. When he felt that everything was perfect, he reached out, pulling her into the dream. As usual, he hid himself from view—he loved watching Rose when she didn't realize he was observing her. She looked so… free. When no one was around she let the tough girl mask fall away, revealing the beautiful, careful teenager she might have been if fate had dealt her a different hand, and she had led a simpler life.

She stood in the middle of the garden he had crafted, the hot summer sun shining down, bringing out dark auburn highlights in her hair. The air was heavy and humid, dozens of different scents vying for attention. Flowers of every color bloomed around her, and bees and butterflies danced lazily through the air, traveling from blossom to blossom.

"Oh no," She groaned, looking down at herself.

He'd dressed her in snug fitting jeans and a halter top, not to mention her items of protection—her nazar and chotki—strangely they always appeared in the dreams, even though he never visualized them.

"Where are you?" She called, her voice filled with irritation. "I know you're here."

Smiling to himself, he stepped out from behind an apple tree, it's thick white and pink flowers brushing his hair as he ducked underneath a low hanging bough. He'd dressed himself casually for this meeting, wanting her to see the Adrian that hid underneath the fancy, expensive clothes—this was the Adrian he'd always wanted to be. A man who wore jeans and T-shirts every instead of the designer clothes his familial status demanded.

"I told you to stay out of my dreams," she said, putting her hands on my hips.

He shot her a lazy smile. "But how else are we supposed to talk? You didn't seem very friendly earlier."

"Maybe if you didn't use compulsion on people, you'd have more friends." She stuck her lower lip out, pouting. He wondered if she knew how luscious it made her look. God, he wanted to kiss her.

"I had to save you from yourself. Your aura was like a storm cloud."

"Okay, for once, can we please not talk about auras and my impending doom?"

He really wanted to talk about what he'd sensed in the library—how somehow the moods between Rose and Lissa shifted and flowed, like a current—but he let it go. "Okay. We can talk about other things."

Like the fact you're wasting yourself—pining over a man who doesn't care enough to claim you as his own, he thought.

"But I don't want to talk at all! I want to sleep."

"You are sleeping." Adrian smiled and walked over to study the trumpet vine that was winding up a post. It had orange and yellow blooms, and even in the dream, it's sweet pollen attracted tiny little ants. He gently ran his fingers over one of the flowers' edges. "This was my grandmother's garden."

He wanted her to know something of his past. This place had been a childhood haven for him. Here he could be himself, without having to worry about how to sit or what fork to use. Here he could be a little boy, running and climbing, or playing hide and go seek with his nana. It was in this garden that he'd first learned to appreciate beauty, developing an artist eye for color and symmetry.

"Great," Rose said, leaning against the apple tree. "Now I get to hear your family history."

Adrian tensed. Couldn't she bend just a little? What the hell?

"Hey she was a cool lady." He was pleased that his voice sounded normal, not giving away his sadness.

"I'm sure she was. Can I go yet?"

His kept his eyes on the vine's blossoms, trying to compose himself. "You shouldn't knock Moroi family trees. You don't know anything about your father. For all you know, we could be related."

"Would that mean you'd leave me alone?"

Strolling back over to her, he switched subjects. If she didn't want to hear about his nana it was her loss. "Nah, don't worry. I think we come from different trees. Isn't your dad some Turkish guy anyway?" His eyes locked on the top she had on. It looked… wrong. The color hadn't turned out quite as he'd imagined it. Ivory wasn't flattering to her skin tone, it gave it an almost jaundiced look. He frowned slightly, considering other options.

"Yeah, according to my— Hey, are you staring at my chest?" She glared at him, crossing her arms over her breasts. Did she always have to think the absolute fucking worst about him? For Christ's sake, he wasn't some horny teenager who couldn't control his hormones.

"I'm staring at your shirt," he said. "The color is all wrong." Reaching out, he touched the strap. Like ink spreading across paper, the ivory fabric turned the same shade of rich indigo as the vine's blossoms. He narrowed his eyes like an expert artist studying his work.

"How'd you do that?" She asked. The amazement in her voice made him smile.

"It's my dream. Hmm. You're not a blue person. Well, at least not in the color sense. Let's try this." The blue lit up into a brilliant crimson. "Yes, that's it. Red's your color. Red like a rose, like a sweet, sweet Rose."

"Oh man," She said, taking a step backwards. "I didn't know you could kick into crazy mode even in dreams."

If she only knew. Jesus. He stepped back and threw his arms out. "I'm always crazy around you, Rose. Here, I'm going to write an impromptu poem for you." He tipped his head back and shouted to the sky. "Rose is in red—But never in blue. Sharp as a thorn—Fights like one too."

He let his arms fall to his sides and looked at her, waiting for her next quip. Whatever it was, he knew it would be sarcastic.

"How can a thorn fight?" She asked.

He shook his head. "Art doesn't have to make sense, little dhampir. Besides, I'm supposed to be crazy, right?"

"Not the craziest I've ever seen."

Huh. There was actually someone more insane than he was? He'd really like to meet the poor s.o.b. if that was the case. Maybe they could have a drink and swap stories. "Well," he said, pacing over to study some hydrangeas, "I'll work on that."

"Adrian … how do you know if you're crazy or not?"

He froze for a moment before turning to face her, struggling to keep a smile on his face. He thought about answering with a joke, but her face was filled with worry. His smile faded, and he turned unusually serious.

"Do you think you're crazy?" he asked.

"I don't know," She looked down at the ground, shuffling her bare feet against the grass. "I've been … seeing things."

Things like the crazy visions he had from time to time? "People who are crazy rarely question whether they're crazy," he said, hoping to soothe her.

She sighed, looking up at him with her big brown eyes. He felt himself falling more in love with her every time their eyes met, and it scared him. Was he destined to always love her from afar?

"That doesn't really help me," she said.

He walked back over to her, placing a hand on her bare shoulder. The feeling of her soft skin against his palm made his breath hitch in his throat and his heart beat faster. He rushed his answer, hoping she hadn't heard his sudden intake of breath. "I don't think you're crazy, Rose. I think you've been through a lot, though."

She frowned. "What's that mean?"

"It means I don't think you're crazy."

"Thanks. That clears things up. You know, these dreams are really starting to bug me."

"Lissa doesn't mind them," he said. Too bad it wasn't Lissa he wanted to share them with. In these dreams, he could take Rose anywhere. They could do anything imaginable. He could giver her anything her heart desired—well, almost anything. What she most wanted, he couldn't bring himself to include in their dream scape.

Belikov.

He refused to include an image of the other man in the dream, because as soon as she saw the Russian, she'd forget that Adrian Ivashkov existed. He had to deal with that rejection on a daily basis, he'd be damned if he'd experience here.

"You visit hers too? Do you seriously have no boundaries?"

"Nah, hers are instructional. She wants to learn how to do this."

"Great. So I'm just the lucky one who gets to put up with your sexual harassment."

His face fell, and this time he couldn't hide it. He bit down on his lip, staring at the bright blue sky. "I really wish you wouldn't act like I'm evil incarnate."

"Sorry. I just haven't had much reason to believe you can do anything useful."

He winced. Surely she didn't realize how hurtful her words were? She couldn't be that thoughtless, could she? For a moment he contemplated telling her he'd been useful enough to find her in Spokane. Useful enough to get Tasha to leave lover boy alone. The more he thought about her words, the angrier he got, and he spoke without thinking.

"Right. As opposed to your cradle-robbing mentor. I don't really see you making much progress with him."

She narrowed her eyes, glaring at him hatefully. "Leave Dimitri out of this."

"I will when you stop acting like he's perfect. Correct me if I'm wrong, but he's one of the people who hid the trial from you, right?" He shot back. She acted like the man were some sort of divine being. Despite the fact he was constantly hurting her. Leading her on with soft looks and sweet words, then pushing her away.

She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "That's not important right now. Besides, he had his reasons."

"Yeah, which apparently didn't involve being open with you or fighting to get you there. Whereas me…" He shrugged. "I could get you into the trial." If you'd just act pleasant, for a change, he thought. He wasn't expecting her to declare her undying devotion to him, but she could at least treat him like a human being with fucking feelings.

"You?" She asked with a harsh laugh. "How are you going to pull that off? Have a smoke break with the judge? Use compulsion on the queen and half the royals at court?"

"You shouldn't be so quick to slam people who can help you. Just wait." He placed a light kiss on her forehead, thrilled at the way the feeling it made him come alive, ignoring how she struggled to get away from him. "But for now, go get some rest."

He released her, watching as she slowly faced into nothingness, the garden following after her a moment later. He stood, analyzing the emotions racing through him, and realized he was well and truly screwed. He was deeply, desperately in love with Rose Hathaway, and she hated his guts.

Fuck it. He needed a drink.