Chapter Seven

Lightning seemed to burst around them, pulsing through the door as it flew open and slammed into the wall beside it. Tiny chunks of plaster fell from the spot where the doorknob had gouged the wall. The small pieces bounced off the entryway's wooden floor and hit Savannah's legs. The enraged man on the other side of the threshold, however, remained outside. So, she'd been right after all…

"You can't come in, can you?" she asked, knowing a moment's triumph.

"No," he bit out.

"You're stuck out there unless I invite you in, aren't you?"

He said nothing, merely inclined his head and continued to glare at her.

"Not so fast." He started forward when she reached out to close the front door in his face. He came up short just before he would have reached into the house, though, stopped by some mysterious, invisible force that Savannah couldn't see.

"No." She shook her head and gripped the smooth side of the door, on edge and ready to slam it if he made any sudden moves.

"You have to invite me in," he insisted.

"Like hell I do." Her chin came up, despite the mass of jangled nerves that she felt deep in her abdomen.

"You can't stay in there forever," he pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the side of the house. "Sooner or later, you'll have to face me. It might as well be now."

I'm never going to sleep again, Savannah vowed, and right then, as keyed up and tense as she felt, it was a promise that sounded very reasonable—sleep felt like it was a long way off.

"Come on," he continued mockingly, unaffected by her silence, "don't you want me to show you around this grand house?"

"No. I want to go home. I want to wake up and never see you again." She swallowed past the knot in her throat, hating him for making her hurt so bad. Hating herself for letting him affect her like this. How stupidly desperate had she been to fall in love with a figment of her own imagination at best, and a … a ghost, at worst?

Savannah was horrified to realize that, even now, some sick, twisted part of her wanted so badly to forget the past few hours of her life. She itched to slam the door and run away. And yet at the same time she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and cry. Her body didn't seem to care that it made no sense whatsoever to seek comfort from the very thing that tormented her. "I want to forget all about you," she said vehemently. More than anything, she wanted to hurt him right now.

Her target hit its mark. "Bullshit."

She sucked in a gulp of air, wishing the brief flash of hurt she'd just witnessed in his eyes made her feel anything but worse. "Anthony doesn't like to share, so…" she continued pointedly, even as the more logical side of her brain cautioned her against baiting the tiger.

His nostrils flared with his sharp intake of breath, and Savannah took an instinctive step back. "Savannah, so help me, if you sleep with him—"

"The bed would get a little crowded, don't you think?"

"I'll fucking kill him," he growled savagely.

She moved to slam the door.

"God damn it," he ground out, ramming both hands through his hair and letting his head fall back for a moment. "Wait. Please," he added, his eyes still tightly shut, as though he were struggling for control. Then he waved a hand from the porch and, one by one, intricate gas lamps came alive on the walls to chase the shadows from the room just beyond the entryway. Savannah turned and realized she was standing in a cavernous space that she could only assume was a parlor. Elegant tapestries graced the walls, and thick rugs warmed the wide dark wood planks of the floor. The room was tastefully decorated in rich earth tones and laced through with a pale pink shade that had clearly been used as an accent color.

At the flick of his wrist, a fire lit in the hearth. If she hadn't been so terrified and pissed off, Savannah reflected without humor, the space would've been downright charming.

"Who owns this house? Where have they gone?" What have you done to them? She took another step further into the room but kept the open doorway and the porch in sight, careful not to turn her back on him.

"This house…" His gesture was wide and sweeping this time, lighting the entire main floor of the home.

Savannah gasped.

"This is my gift to you," he replied, straightening, his voice tight.

Her stomach plummeted and she quickly glanced away. "I don't want it. I want to go home," she repeated.

"You are home."

"No, I am not." She frowned and turned her back on the beautiful surroundings, stalked to the front door, and slammed it without further hesitation. He howled in rage, and a dull thud hit the wood a second later, causing it to rattle in the frame. But the door remained closed and, to Savannah's way of thinking, it wouldn't hurt him one bit to spend some time cooling his heels on the porch.

She made her way up a long, winding staircase and bypassed the second-floor landing to continue up to the third level of the house, which turned out to be a wide open, spacious, floored attic. Giant timber beams criss-crossed high overhead, and twin octagon-shaped windows were situated at both ends of the enormous room. The Willow Brook farmhouse had an attic like this. It was meant for parties and dances, if Savannah remembered correctly. This room had a much nicer, more elaborate feel than the one in Iowa. Her house. She struggled with the concept as she backtracked to the second floor. Their house. Impossible. Her thoughts felt disjointed as she wandered down a long, dark hall.

Sconce lighting fixtures, similar to the ones on the downstairs walls, were placed every few feet along the main hallway of the second floor, but she didn't see any knobs on them, or any light switches along the wall, for that matter. "How do you turn the lights on?" she mused out loud, stepping back with a startled gasp when, a second later, the sconces lit up on their own.

She wandered into one of the bedrooms to her left and paused to take in the enormous canopied bed that stood against one wall and the tall chest of drawers with the polished brass knobs. A huge, lace-covered window looked out over the front yard. Savannah crossed the room and shoved the curtain aside to peer into the darkness below.

A single porch light blazed and threw out a semi-circle of light onto the lawn. He was there, leaning against a tree trunk with his ankles crossed and his arms folded over his chest. He glanced up at that moment and sent her a mocking salute before resuming his casual stance.

Savannah snapped the curtain back into place and stalked to the bed. The sheets were cool and inviting, even if there was something decidedly eerie about being in an empty house—at least, an empty house that was the size of a small museum, she amended, plucking at a yellow knit comforter that was folded over the end of the bed. His doing, no doubt. The whole house was his doing. Savannah hung her head and sighed. He had been angry tonight—no, livid. And he wasn't a dream. He'd been watching her this evening and who only knew how many other times as well. She thought of all the times she'd been in the shower in the past several weeks. Then other, more private, moments of years past flickered through her mind and she cringed.

He could read her private thoughts, too, she realized. Even though she'd suspected as much in the past, it was still a startling revelation. And why not? Thinking that your dream man had the ability to read your every thought and whim wasn't that much of a stretch. In theory, it even sounded kind of nice. In theory, she could pick and choose what to share; she could select and edit the parts of her life to which he had access.

Savannah's hands knotted in the pale lemon-hued fabric of the quilt. In reality, it wasn't nice at all. Reality. She blanched, her gaze settling on the window. Real. He was real. He was down there and he was real. Oh Lord.

"Breathe," she whispered. "I just need to breathe." And deal with the fact that a five-year dream had just come true … somehow. Only it was turning out to be more of a nightmare than a dream-come-true. She was trapped in this house by…

She paused, straightening and letting the fabric drop from her cold fingers. What was she trapped here by? What was he? How long would she be forced to stay here? Until she woke up in real life? But if this place was real, too…

Savannah shook her head and stood then, going back to the window and switching the lacy sheers aside once more. She folded her arms over the window sill and let her forehead rest against the glass. It was pointless to spend the rest of the night trapped in this house with nothing but silence and wild speculation echoing through the empty halls. She stared down at him and he looked up at her a second later, one brow raised in silent question.

Can I trust you? She thought the words, holding his gaze and willing him to hear the silent question. Despite the fact that Savannah had already seen plenty of evidence to suggest that he was privy to her most personal, private information, she still felt a wave of shock when, after he'd held her stare for several long moments, he nodded and pushed away from the tree.

She made her way down the stairs and met him at the front door. Taking a deep breath, she opened it and stared into eyes that looked considerably calmer than the raging inferno she'd witnessed an hour ago. "If I invite you in, you won't touch me?" she asked, eyeing him warily.

He didn't look happy about that, but all he said was, "Fine."

"Okay, come in."

A faint light shimmered in the middle of the open doorway. Then he crossed the threshold in one long stride. He walked past her, stopping near the fireplace and turning around to face her, hands held out for her inspection.

"See? As promised."

She decided to cut to the chase. "Where are we?"

"I told you, we're home."

"Is this—any of this—real?"

He flicked a hand over the marble of the hearth and nodded. "It's real."

"How?"

"It's as real as anything in your realm."

"But you could make it all go away, couldn't you?" she persisted, taking a step closer to him. "If you wanted to?"

He stared at her in silence for several long moments. "Yes," he said evenly.

"All of it? What would be left? Where would—"

"Not all of it," he interrupted. "Only the house, although that doesn't mean it's not real, only that I can change it. The land, the forest around this house, is something I can't change."

"The lagoon, the park…"

"Were real enough." He shrugged.

"Okay." She frowned, still trying to grasp the full implication of his words. "You saw me tonight, didn't you? With—"

"Don't," he commanded harshly, rounding on her. "Don't you dare say his name."

"Fine," Savannah said just as tersely. "I'm trying to figure this all out and talk to you, but forget it. I'm going home now." Maybe. If she could figure out how. She shot him a scathing glance, crossed her arms over her chest, and willed herself to wake up.

He was at her side in an instant, jerking her against him. "So you can be with him? So he can touch you some more? Over my dead body."

"That's not your damn business. I will—"

His lips abruptly silenced her. She shoved at his chest, to no avail. It was like trying to move a brick wall, fighting him. But fighting herself was so much worse. Her traitorous body didn't want to fight the heat that surrounded her. His arms were banded around her with the sole purpose of restraint. Only a fool would try to find shelter there. She was almost afraid to closely examine why being more or less unable to move made her feel so free. Why it would be so easy to let his mouth and the sweet ache in her midsection wash the whole damn world away.

"Don't fucking leave," he rasped once he'd lifted his head. He sounded angry—and something else, Savannah realized. Something tense and pained…

She froze. "You're scared, aren't you?" she said after a moment, her own temper rapidly cooling. Tentatively, she reached up to touch his face. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but otherwise he remained statue-still beneath her touch.

"He kissed you." The accusation was made through gritted teeth, but underneath the anger was a barely concealed layer of pain.

He felt hurt, betrayed, Savannah realized with a start, and her anger evaporated. "You were only a dream," she reminded him, using one finger to trace the harsh outline of his mouth. "You weren't real and he was. But this … changes things," she admitted, still struggling to come to grips with the fact that the dream—that he—was way more real that she'd ever imagined.

"You're never going to see him again."

Savannah chose to ignore his taunt and, instead, looked up at him. His arms were still locked around her; his eyes were still flashing.

"What are you?" she whispered.

"I'm just a figment of your imagination," he mocked, his lips inches from hers. "Or am I an angel?" His gaze settled on her mouth.

"I don't know," she murmured, unable to look away from him. His breath ghosted across her parted lips.

"Yes, you do."

"I—"

"Think back, Savannah. The night of your party. Before your friend showed up."

Her eyes widened, and she tensed in his embrace.

"Yes."

"No."

"You're an … incubus." She could barely hear her own voice.

His mouth covered hers with a primal hunger that shook her to the core. Again and again, he rocked against her, trailing his lips down her neck, then back up, behind her ear, along her cheek. He was everywhere. Biting, licking, punishing, begging forgiveness. Breathless, she arched against him. Wash it away. All of it, she silently commanded him, not even sure what she was asking for anymore.

He lifted her, pressing her back to the wall. "Are you afraid?"

"No." Her legs wrapped around his hips.

Like that first night, his touch was ravenous; he consumed her, made her burn for him in a way no one else had ever done. Excitement flowed from him and into her, and the rest of the world fell away as she clung to him. His mouth traced a new line of fire down her throat. She tore at his clothing; he turned hers to vapor.

"Not fair," she gasped when his hand slid between their bodies. His answer was a wicked sound of amusement as he stroked her.

"I need you now."

"I'm here. I'm always … here."