Dire Warning WC0.5 (10 page)

The dreamwalking had become worse in the months leading up to his capture. Since Rogue’s coma, it had only gone downhill. Rifter had always been able to control it, but lately, his own dreams had been stranger. He’d wake up speaking the old language, unable to remember where he’d been.

The dreams were draining him. He wasn’t scared of anything, but they freaked him the fuck out.

Jinx did what he could to help keep the dreams at bay, which included the use of Native American dream catchers, while Rifter actively tried not to sleep. Much. And even though he’d promised Jinx and the others that he wouldn’t do this because they couldn’t be sure the new dreams weren’t the insidious work of Seb and his witches, Rifter pulled off the dream-catcher necklace and put it around Gwen’s neck instead. Then he prepared to put himself in a danger he’d sworn not to.

He closed his eyes, her hand in his large one, her skin soft and smooth and cool, and goddamn, it would feel good on his cock. But this wasn’t about him, and he had nothing but time, so he could afford to be magnanimous.

He settled into a light sleep. The push into her subconscious wasn’t effortless, which was strange, because in her state, there should have been no resistance.

But very few could resist him for long, especially humans.

Finally he broke through and began the dreamwalk—a combination of actually walking through the person’s dreams and then influencing said dreams. A handy skill. Inside Gwen’s dreams, he got sucked into a swirling mass of terror and confusion and . . . hope. Strangely enough, there was more of that than anything.

Rifter didn’t know how the hell it all worked, but somehow, with the dreamwalk, he was both by Gwen’s side physically while his dream self walked with Gwen inside her mind.

In that dream state—suspended from the reality of her world—he took her away from the pain and fear and put his leather jacket on her, over her bra and underwear, even though she wouldn’t really feel the cold, and holy Mother of God, she looked fine. He almost stayed on the bed next to her, but instead, he put her back on his bike . . . and because they were in the dream, he rode faster than he ever would with her in real life. She laughed, her hands in the air the way they’d been before, and the vibrations rang through both like a fever.

But Brother Wolf’s needs were becoming increasingly hard to ignore, what with the white round bitch hanging in the sky, and he needed to run. Had no choice but to take Gwen with him.

Rifter’s skin tightened, and he didn’t fight the change from man to beast. He reveled in it. Letting the wolf take over was sometimes the easiest thing in the world . . . would be so damned easy to let him take over full-time. And so he was now Brother Wolf both in Gwen’s bedroom and in her dream, and Brother Wolf complied by keeping his paw on Gwen’s hand to not break Rifter’s way into her dream.

In the dream, though, Brother Wolf was free, and he stopped and howled, and Gwen was watching warily. He smelled the fear on her skin, watched her face pale and her mouth gape in a frightened O, because, yeah, Brother Wolf was a big, scary-looking motherfucker, although a hell of a looker too. He shook his head and the fur around his neck shifted, and then he bared his neck and howled, his way of telling Gwen she was safe, although she wouldn’t know that. And obviously she didn’t because just then she backed up and began to run from him.

He caught up to her and for a while they ran side by side, until he stopped smelling her fear . . . until he saw the smile on her face. Brother Wolf dusted up the leaves from the ground, and they swirled around their feet, crunching in the night. And when Brother Wolf sat, she even reached out—hesitantly—and patted his back.

He gave a contented whimper in response. Bastard.

It was after one in the morning when Brother Wolf conceded. Rifter stood naked in front of her as she lay on the forest ground on a blanket of old leaves untouched by the snow, thanks to the thick covering of trees. She could see pinpricks of moonlight coming from above, her body sated from the run. As she gazed at him as if he was the best thing she’d ever seen, it made him feel like beating his chest.

Father Wolf,
Brother Wolf whispered in his ear.

His cock jutted out toward her, and in response she reached to unhook her bra and stripped it and her underwear and lay on the soft ground naked under the moonlight, waiting for him.

In the dream state, he was supposed to lead her through a higher reality, a place she couldn’t get to herself. He wasn’t supposed to gain pleasure from it, but he couldn’t help himself, not when her nipples tightened into perfect buds the color of ripe berries, her breasts a little more than a handful. A perfect blond triangle between her legs.

She had a runner’s body—lithe, long, finely muscled, and his hand dipped between her thighs, a finger exploring the wet heat. She would feel this to her core. Her hips already began to rock against his hand in response to his touch, her fingers moving across her belly and her body thrashing, this time for pure pleasure.

He couldn’t remember wanting a woman this much. He wouldn’t take her like this, felt badly about doing this to her, but judging by the length of her orgasm, she needed it.

She’d remember none of this—if she had a vague memory, she’d think it was a hot dream.

He’d remember everything and it would haunt him for a hell of a long time.

About the Author

Stephanie Tyler
is the
New York Times
extended bestselling author of the Eternal Wolf Clan series as well as two military romantic suspense series. She lives in New York with her husband, kids, and a crazy Weimaraner named Gus.

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