He'd been lying down for hours, imagining different scenarios and fantasies, each one more intense than the one before. He'd pictured Rose in formal dresses and jewels, then in lacy, barely there lingerie. Being a healthy, adult male, naturally he'd preferred to picture her standing naked before him in all her glory—that topped any other image his mind could conjured up. Unfortunately, he'd worked himself into a mass of sexual frustration—he was so aroused that before sleeping he would probably have to take matters in hand and indulge in a bit of self-gratification. That is, if he could just get over the strange guilt that was eating away at him.
The problem was, that for some unknown, obscure reason, he felt embarrassment mixed with the slightest hint of shame—and he couldn't figure out why. It wasn't as if he hadn't fantasized and dreamed about Rose a hundred times over—hell, it was a common occurrence. From the first night he'd met her, she'd had a starring role in his dreams—not just the ones he manipulated with spirit, but his natural dreams as well.
Sprawled on his king sized bed, clad only in a pair of forest green silk boxers that were almost painfully tight against the bulge of his erection, he stared at a picture of his little dhampir, trying to put his finger on exactly what was troubling him. The picture was one he'd snapped on the sly, and it had turned out beautifully. On one of his meaningless strolls around campus he'd heard her voice and came upon Rose and Belikov deep in conversation. They had been so intent on each other and the conversation they were engaged in that they never realized anyone was nearby.
In the photo, she was staring up at her mentor with an expression of complete and utter devotion on her beautiful face, on display for the world to see, in a manner that was completely out of character. Rose made a point of keeping her soft side hidden from everyone but Belikov—and that gentler Rose was the one in the photo. If she knew this picture existed, she'd probably break him in two and then stake him for good measure.
Lightly tracing his fingers across the glossy surface of the paper, he stumbled across the answer to his dilemma. He felt the way he did because deep down it seemed somehow wrong to go into his dreams with the sole purpose of seducing an imitation Rose with the sole purpose of drawing out the Russian. If he did so, he would be using her to further his own goal. Even if it would benefit her in the long run—hell, even if it was just a damned dream—he cared to much about her to treat her that way.
Was it because he really loved her? Was that what made him feel sordid and despicable to think of Rose in a sexual way knowing she was in so much emotional pain? She was out there somewhere, alone and grieving the man she loved—and here he lay, imagining himself removing her panties using only his teeth. It was abhorrent, and made him feel like the despicable womanizer that everyone accused him of being—wanting Rose for a cheap, sexual thrill, only to throw her away when he got what he wanted, treating her like a blood whore. The thought had the effect of a cold shower, his arousal draining away as if it had never occurred in the first place.
So instead of imagining her in an exotic location, scantily clad as he rubbed oil on her beautiful body or sprawled across a bed atop red silken sheets, he decided to do something different. There was more to love than just sex, so that was what he'd focus on. Closing his eyes he drifted off to thoughts and images of romancing his Rosebud in an entirely new way. Some would probably think that what he pictured was a ridiculously worn out scenario, but to him, it just seemed like the perfect setting for an sweet, innocent romantic afternoon with the woman he desperately loved.
A thick, soft blanket spread out on the shore of the pond near Rose and Belikov's little love nest of a cabin. The blanket was littered with empty dishes, the remains of the picnic lunch they'd recently devoured. Rose lay on her back, staring up at the bright blue sky, her expression content and happy. Propped up on an elbow, he stared down at her, gently tracing her jawline with a single finger, just as he'd done with her photograph in the moments before sleep claimed him.
"Thank you for this. It was nice. A bit cheesy, but nice all the same."
"Anything for you little dhampir—I just want to make you happy." He moved his hand to her hair, smoothing it back from her face. "I miss you, Rose. So much."
She laughed. "How can you miss me Adrian? I'm right here beside you. We've been together all afternoon."
"I miss the real you." He sighed, knowing that as wonderful as this felt, it was a lie. "You're not the real Rose—you're just a figment of my imagination. The real Rose never would have thanked me, and she wouldn't let me touch her like this. My Rose is gone… and I don't know if I'll ever see her again."
"I'm real Adrian," she said, her speech the perfect copy of Rose's soft alto voice. She slid her hand up, her palm cupping his cheek for a moment. "I'm yours."
"You might be, but Rose isn't. She's his. Even now, knowing what he is…"
"Stop talking." Her fingers moved to twine in his hair, gently pulling his face closer. "This is real. Kiss me."
His lips smashed down against hers, moving with purpose. For a moment he didn't care that it was a just dream. It felt real enough. He could smell the coconut scent of her hair and the warm, spicy aroma of the perfume he'd given her. He could feel the warmth of her lips as they danced against his own. Rolling his body on top of her, he groaned at the feeling as she slid one leg up over his hip, pressing herself against him. The sensation caused him to break the kiss long before he wanted to. Pulling back, he stared down at her, amazed by the passion in her dark, sultry eyes.
"See—I told you I was real," she purred, her lips turning up in a small, self-satisfied grin.
Reclaiming her lips, he lost himself in the moment, reveling in the way her body responded to his touch. His hands slid between them and he frantically fumbled with the buttons on her shirt, wanting—no needing to feel her skin against his. As her hands shot up to do the same, he realized something was happening. The dream suddenly felt… different, somehow. They were no longer alone in the idyllic spot—someone else had arrived.
"You don't listen, do you?" The voice was coming from somewhere nearby, but it wasn't the cold, emotionless voice he'd been expecting.
"It's not really her—it's just a dream," he said, pulling his face away from Rose, ignoring her small murmur of protest.
"I don't give a damn. I don't want you dreaming of her like this!" Adrian spotted him as he stepped out of the shadows to lean against a nearby tree. The expression on his face was… tortured. "You can control dreams so I know this is your doing."
Something about the way he looked, the way he sounded—his voice seemed… different. Not as cold. He almost looked and sounded like the old Dimitri Belikov, giving Adrian a faint spark of hope that he might be able to reason with the Russian. "This isn't Rose—the real Rose is gone."
"What do you mean gone? Did something happen to her after they… after they changed me?"
Adrian pushed away her insistent hands as they tried to pull him back down. There was a definite sense of panic in the Strigoi's voice. "She left the Academy. She's gone off looking for you."
"No! You have to stop her, Ivashkov. I left Montana so she would be safe—she can't… " Belikov grimaced, his shoulders bowing forward as if he were in pain. When he straightened, Adrian winced. The Russian's entire demeanor had changed. Whatever lingering traces of the man he had been were gone, replaced by the evil that now controlled him. The pained expression had been replaced by a look of pure contempt. "Such a sentimental fool, wasting time mourning lost love like a fucking love struck poet."
"Why are you here?" Adrian tried to keep the terror he felt out of his voice, but knew that it leaked through.
"She is my mate—my perfect match in every way. I was planning on returning to collect her, but thanks to you, now I know all I have to do is sit back and wait for her to find me."
"How is this even possible? You shouldn't be able to enter my dreams—you can't be asleep."
"You're right. I don't sleep. But you don't have to be asleep to dream, you fool. Besides, this isn't a dream, per say, at least not on my end." His voice grew more arrogant, as if he were actually enjoying their discourse. "Do you know the meaning of the word torpor, Ivashkov?"
Adrian searched his mind, coming up blank. "No, I don't."
"Not very smart, are you? Torpor is a state of motor and mental inactivity with a partial suspension of sensibility. An inactivity resulting from lethargy. A lack of vigor or energy, if you will. All animated beings—even the undead—need a way to… recharge their batteries, so to speak. Right now, I am in torpor, my body overly sated from a recent… feast. Unfortunately, when I am in such a state, he sometimes gains the upper hand."
"That makes no sense. You're one and the same." Adrian shot back.
"We are and yet we're not. When one is awakened, the soul leaves the body. The spirit remains behind, but it is broken at the separation from the soul, leaving it malleable to the… darker side of human nature. In the end it embraces the changes the darkness brings instead of fighting against them. You have prevented that from happening because you are connected to our spirit. It causes us to have… feelings… emotions… that are not natural in this state."
Something in the Strigoi's voice sent off warning bells. He studied the creature, noticing the sudden tensing of muscles and the way it held its body stiff, as if poised to attack, perhaps angered that the goodness within Belikov's spirit still fought for control. At the same instant, Adrian realized something mortifying. This was a natural dream, created unintentionally, and there was no silver stake in sight. Fuck a damned duck.
Pulling on spirit, he attempted to strengthen himself, just in case the Strigoi came any closer. Unfortunately, there was one small factor he'd failed to consider. His mind was… not in the best shape. Not drinking had affected him far more than he realized, and the madness was far too close for comfort, weakening his control. Instead of refueling him, the spirit flowed outward, latching onto the dream and subtly shifting it. Their surroundings brightened, and a few seconds later, he was painfully shoved backwards, caught unaware.
"What the fuck are you doing, Adrian? I told you to stay out of my dreams!"
He stared in horror at a very irate, very real Rose Hathaway. Somehow he had inadvertently summoned a spirit dream, pulling her in and creating what could only be described as one majorly fucked up situation.
"Oh God Rose—I'm sorry! It was an accident, I swear!"
"Get the hell off of me Ivashkov," she growled.
Slowly crawling backwards, he tried to keep his body in between Rose and the figure leaning up against the tree. The last thing she needed to see was the man she loved in his new, predatory guise. If he luck was with him, he could block her view long enough to banish her from his dream, sending her back into her own, this might end without Rose suffering any further emotional trauma.
Of course, he wasn't that lucky. God forbid things be easy for a change.
"Very good, Ivashkov. I would much rather see my Roza—the real thing is so much more enjoyable than the simpering imitation you conjured up before. It's no wonder I still hang on to the memory of her— she is… amazing."
Rose froze, her eyes widening at the sound of his accented voice, her face expressing complete shock. "Di… Dimitri?"
"Rose!" Adrian reached over, trying to grab her chin. "Look at me!"
"Let me go! Let me see him, damn you! Dimitri!" She struggled in his arms, thankfully making the mistake of locking eyes with him in her attempt to break free.
"No!" Pulling on spirit, he shoved compulsion into her, layering it through her mind as he spoke in a soft, crooning voice. "You're not going to remember this, Rose. You had a bad dream—that's all. Now wake up!"
Instantly the brightness dimmed, and the eyes he was staring into faded, no longer nearly as beautiful as they had been just a moment before. The essential spark—the fire—that burned within the real Rose was gone. How could he have fooled himself into thinking that this dream girl was the same as the real thing?
"You kept her safe this time, Ivashkov, but I'll be the victor in the end. She'll be with me soon enough. Now that I know she's coming, I'll have to prepare something… special for her. Something fitting for such a fierce, beautiful creature."
Adrian spun, glaring at the tall man. "If what you say is true—that you have feelings and emotions because you remember what you once were, there's no way you'd hurt her. You love her, just as much as I do."
"Indeed. That is why she'll join me. We'll be together forever. We'll conquer the Moroi world and rule hand in hand. It will be the beginning of a new age—one in which the Strigoi will dominate the night." Belikov cocked his head, arching a dark eyebrow and smiling. "Goodbye Adrian. I'll see you soon. Sooner than you might imagine. Tell everyone I said hello, won't you? Especially the last Dragomir. She's taken advantage of my woman for far, far too long. I intend to free Roza from her clutches once and for all."
Before Adrian could reply, the dream faded. He found himself sitting upright in bed, gasping for air, his skin slick with sweat. Cursing, he collapsed back against the mattress, longing for a drink. He'd screwed up again, not finding out nearly enough to determine where Rose might be headed. In fact, all he'd actually done was alert the monster that she was on her way. It had been a fuck up of colossal proportions, and he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.