That night, the dream slid over Aiden like silk warmed by skin—slow, rich, and utterly consuming.
He stood in a field of silver grass that moved like breath, bathed in moonlight that caressed everything it touched. Above, the stars shimmered like broken glass suspended in velvet, and the air was thick with hush, as if the world itself waited.
Then she emerged.
Rosalie.
Mist clung to her like memory. Her golden hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the light like spun flame. She wore only a slip of translucent fabric—no shoes, no ornaments—just the sheen of moonlight on bare skin. The cloth moved with her like it loved her, draping her curves and whispering across her thighs with every step.
He couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
Only feel.
The hum of her presence inside his chest.
The slow, uncoiling heat in his belly.
The sudden ache of want so sharp it felt like grief.
She walked toward him with eyes that devoured—molten gold, bright with hunger and something else, something wounded. Her lips parted as if to say his name, though no sound came. She didn't need to speak. He heard her in every nerve.
When she reached him, her fingers brushed his chest, light as breath. And he broke. The heat of her touch sank into him like ink into paper. His hands found her waist, small and perfect, and she melted into him with the certainty of someone who had waited lifetimes for this.
Her mouth found his. Feather-light. Then again, firmer. Open. Slow.
She tasted like frost on ripe fruit—sweet and cold and stolen. Her lips molded to his with a gentle urgency, as though she were afraid they'd be torn apart before she got enough. He answered with the same desperation.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. Her body pressed flush to his, soft curves meeting muscle, the heat between them rising like a fever. He trailed his hands down her spine, drawing her tighter, feeling the shiver that traveled through her.
The kiss deepened.
Her breath trembled into his mouth, and he swallowed it.
She was everywhere—on his skin, in his blood, behind his eyes. There was nothing else. Nothing outside this touch. This need.
But the dream began to shift.
The stars faded, one by one.
The moon wept red.
Rosalie's body tensed. Her lips lingered on his, then pulled away with a trembling sigh.
A sound rose—low and ancient, like something too big for language—and the silver grass withered beneath their feet.
She clutched his face with both hands, her gaze wide and frantic.
"I shouldn't be here," she whispered, voice breaking like glass in water. "You shouldn't want me."
"But I do," he rasped. His throat was dry. His heart felt bare.
A shadow moved behind her—enormous, soundless, swallowing the horizon.
She leaned in close, mouth brushing his ear, voice like snow on fire: "Then you'll burn."
And she vanished.
The field turned to ash.
Aiden stood alone, hands still reaching for a body that had felt more real than breath.