Elena hadn't meant to fall asleep.
She'd gone to her room planning to pace, overthink, replay every second of training, and maybe scream into a pillow. A totally reasonable agenda.
But exhaustion crept up on her—slow, heavy, inevitable—and pulled her under.
She drifted into darkness.
Then into heat.
And then—
Into him.
At first it was only a voice.
Low, steady, wrapping around her like velvet dragged through embers.
"Elena."
Her breath hitched.
She knew that voice even in dreams. Especially in dreams.
"Soren?" she whispered.
A silhouette formed behind her—broad shoulders, a shadow she would know anywhere. The air changed as he stepped closer, dense and electric, like a storm deciding exactly where to strike.
"Elena," he murmured again, the sound almost brushing her skin, "you run from me in daylight…"
A hand—warm, solid—skimmed down her arm.
She shivered violently.
"…but not here."
Her heartbeat thundered. "I'm not running."
"No?" His breath grazed her neck. "Then why do you flinch?"
"I— I didn't mean to—"
His fingers slid to her waist, firm but gentle, holding her in place without force.
"You trust me," he said, voice low, "but fear what I could be."
She opened her mouth—nothing came out.
Soren hummed softly, as if hearing the answer she couldn't form.
"You should fear me."
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because," he breathed, lips brushing the shell of her ear without touching, "you undo my control."
The hand at her waist tightened—not harsh, but claiming.
Her knees nearly gave.
"And when I lose control…" He leaned closer—"…I take."
Her breath shattered.
She turned toward him instinctively, reaching, needing—
But the moment she faced him…
The shadows wouldn't show his face. Only his outline. His heat. His presence.
"Show me," she whispered. "Please."
A soft exhale—half laugh, half growl.
"You ask for danger like you don't understand it."
"I do."
"No."His fingers traced slowly up her spine, sending tremors through her entire body.
"You want it. That's different."
She sucked in a sharp breath. "Soren—"
His hand moved to her jaw, thumb stroking lightly.
"I would never hurt you," he said—a promise, a confession, a warning."But you dream of what I could do."
Her pulse tripped.
He lowered his mouth toward hers—
Close enough to feel. Close enough to fall. Close enough for her dream-self to whisper—
"I'm not afraid of you."
Something in the darkness growled in approval.
A heartbeat before their lips touched—
"Elena."
Real. Not dream.
She jolted awake—
—and found herself staring into Soren's very real, very concerned, very close face.
Her breath stopped.
He was sitting on the edge of her bed. His hand was on her shoulder.
She was flushed. Breathing hard. Sweaty. And absolutely sure she'd just moaned his name out loud.
For a second neither of them moved.
Then—
"Elena," he said again, quieter, "you cried out in your sleep."
She wanted to die. Not dramatically. Efficiently.
"Oh," she croaked. "Did I… say anything?"
He hesitated.
Which was already a terrible sign.
His voice dropped. "…Yes."
She covered her face with both hands. "Please tell me it was something normal. Like—help, taxes, or—bronchitis—"
Soren did not answer. Which meant it was not about bronchitis.
He gently took her wrists and lowered her hands—slowly, carefully, as if afraid she'd shatter.
"Elena."
She swallowed. "Soren."
His gaze searched her face, unreadable but intense enough to melt stone.
"Was it a nightmare?" he asked softly.
She almost lied.
Almost.
But his thumb was brushing her wrist in slow, soothing circles, and his voice was warm, careful, nothing like the cold mask he'd worn earlier.
"…No," she whispered.
His eyes darkened.
"What kind of dream was it?"
Her heartbeat malfunctioned.
"I—I don't think that's important."
"It woke you." His voice dipped. "It said my name."
"No it didn't."
"It did."
She wanted the earth to open and swallow her.
Instead, she grabbed the blanket and pulled it over her head.
"Elena." The blanket shifted slightly as he lifted a corner. "Elena, look at me."
"No, I'm embarrassed."
His tone softened. "I see that."
"Stop seeing things!"
A low, quiet sound came from him—a laugh he tried very hard to suppress.
She peeked out from under the blanket.
He was smiling. Actually smiling.
Soft. Warm. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with weapons.
"Elena," he murmured, leaning in slightly, "you have nothing to fear from me."
Her pulse fluttered painfully.
"That," she whispered, "might be the problem."
His smile faded slowly, replaced by something deeper. Something that made the air feel hot.
Before he could speak, she blurted: "Do not ask what the dream was about."
He held her gaze for a long, devastating moment. "…Very well."
Relief collapsed through her.
Then he added: "For now."
SHE ALMOST DIED.
"Soren!"
He rose from the bed, expression schooled back into control—but his eyes, gods, his eyes were not controlled at all.
"You should sleep," he said softly.
"You came to check on me?"
"You cried out," he repeated. "I will always come."
And with that, he left her room.
Elena stared at the door long after he closed it. Her dream might have been fantasy.
But the heat in Soren's eyes? That had been real.