Hold Me If You Can

by Stephanie Rowe

  “Love can be painful, I admit.” Mari glanced down at his manly bits, and she bit her lip. She walked over to his fridge, pulled out an ice pack, and handed it to him. “Here.”

  He set the cooling panacea on his groin. “Ah, yes, that’s much better.”

  “I try to mitigate the effects of my spells,” she said. “I keep first aid in all my men’s rooms.”

  Charles closed his eyes. “You’re still a bitch.”

  “I am not!” Mari’s voice grew tense, and then she took a breath to calm herself. “Look, Charles, I agree that dreams can be harmful.”

  He looked up, startled. “You do? No one ever agrees with me. The dream genies put me on administrative leave when I started talking like that.” He moved closer and winced as his swollen balls got squished under his thigh. “Do you want to hear my plan? It’s brilliant.” He glanced around the room for any eavesdroppers. “I can grant dreams, right?” He lowered his voice. “But I can also destroy them.”

  Mari’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  “Oh, yes. I can suck them right out of someone.” He rubbed the ice gently over his testicles. “I still remember the first time I did it. A young man named Ricky was deeply in love with a woman who had scorned him.” Ricky, who had been Charles’s best friend since childhood. “He was depressed, he’d lost his job, he’d stopped taking showers, and he’d adopted six feral cats. He was dying, and all because of his dream.”

  Ricky’s dreams had been so powerful that when Charles had been riding his horse past the cabin, he’d literally been forced to rein in and rush into the decrepit abode. How he’d raced up the stairs, his heart thumping when he’d rounded the corner and seen his friend. “It was just like Prunella,” he said. “Seeing Ricky dying, because he dreamed of a woman who didn’t love him back.” He could still feel the pain as he’d fallen to his knees and grabbed his friend’s hand. “He begged for me to grant his dream, but I couldn’t give it to him.”

  “Why not?” Mari looked so disappointed. “I thought you were good.”

  “Hey! I tried!” he snapped. God, had he tried. Impotence was the worst hell indeed. “But he didn’t believe in his dream, and unless you believe, I can’t do it.” Something inside him had simply snapped, and he’d done the unthinkable. He hadn’t tried to do it. He’d just freaked out and it had happened. “I took his dreams and tossed them aside.”

  “Really?” Mari leaned forward, her face riveted. “How’d you do it?”

  Charles shrugged modestly. “Just my natural talent, I guess. It’s technically impossible for a dream genie to steal dreams, but I have always been an overachiever, so it really was no surprise that I could do the impossible.” It turned out that it was a lot easier to steal dreams than to grant them, because it didn’t depend on the wisher having his thoughts in perfect alignment.

  Mari waved her hand impatiently. “So, what happened to Ricky?”

  Charles thought back to that moment, and peace settled over his body. “Ricky looked at me and said, in this voice of pure awe, ‘It’s gone. The pain is gone.’” Charles grinned. “And then he went on to invent a new method for coloring women’s hair, made millions, and died a happy man with many women servicing him repeatedly.”

  Mari smiled. “That’s beautiful.”

  “It is.” He sighed. “It was too late for Prunella, but if I can save others from her fate, then her death was not in vain.”

  She nodded. “I understand that. The awful things that happen sometimes are made less terrible if we use them to do good things.” She hugged herself. “That’s what I keep telling myself when I get upset about the things I did under Angelica’s orders.”

  He studied Mari. “If you take away people’s dreams, then you take away the frustration and agony of wanting something they can’t have. And then they can find the inner peace and serenity that will allow them to be who they truly are.”

  Mari smiled. “So, you plan to turn the world into Shangri-La by stripping all living beings of their dreams?”

  “Yes, yes.” Now that he was free from smutville, he could actually do it. He stood up. “Let’s do it, woman. Let’s—”

  She didn’t move. “But you’re not that good at the dream thing.”

  Charles narrowed his eyes. “I am a god.”

  “Who creates spinach salad instead of pizza.”

  “It still worked.”

  “Sort of.” Mari rose to her feet and stretched. “What if you try to steal dreams, and you screw it up? Don’t you need to get it right the first time? Because once you start monkeying around, then the dream police will get into your head and come to arrest you. One-shot deal, right?”

  Ah, it was always unfortunate when someone else had a valid point. “This is possible. They do not have my vision. They lost track of me when I went into demon dog assault mode, but I suspect they will be able to find me now that I’m playing in their sandbox again.”

  “They can’t get you in here.” Mari gestured at the walls that were glistening with black magic. “You can practice stealing dreams in here.”

  Charles looked around at his prison. At the light blue walls, at the dog bed in the corner, at the bowl of kibble on the floor. “I don’t want to be in here. It stifles my creativity.”

  “Well, I have news for you, Charlie.” Mari folded her arms over her chest. “You’re in here until I let you out.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to cleanse the dreams of the men I bring to you,” she said, her voice growing in excitement. “Every dream they have except romantic love. They all deserve to be loved, but we damaged them so badly that they can’t love. Love will bring them peace.”

  “Absolutely not.” Charles folded his arms over his chest. “Romantic love is most dangerous. I cannot stand by and watch more people suffer when they could be saved.”

  “These warriors are already broken inside.” Mari leaned forward, her voice urgent. “To heal, they need to be able to release their dreams of revenge, of destruction, of harm, and they need to open their hearts to love. Surely you can admit that fulfilled love is beautiful?”

  Charles sighed, remembering that moment when he’d saved Ricky. The feeling of his heart swelling, when he’d realized he could save the world. That was when he’d first fallen in love with himself. “Yes, yes, love can be wonderful—” He stopped when he saw the flash of triumph on Mari’s face. “Would one of these needy warriors be Christian, by any chance?”

  Pain flickered across her face. “Eventually. I owe it to him. He suffered greatly because of me.” Mari’s voice was quiet. “He deserves love. It doesn’t have to be me. I just want him to have peace.” She held up a black pole he hadn’t noticed before. Where had she been hiding it? “This is my smut rod. I’ve used it on you three times to pull smut off you. I’ll trade cleansing for your help. Each load I take off you, you’ll get more of your talents and powers back. No more salads instead of pizza.”

  Charles narrowed his eyes. He’d already been snookered by Angelica once. “Why would you make me more powerful?”

  “Because you will need to be at your strongest to help Christian. His dreams are extremely bitter and entrenched.” She hunched her shoulders, looking fragile and vulnerable. “I really betrayed him,” she said. “He’s pretty consumed by hate and revenge now.”

  Charles rubbed his whiskers, contemplating. Mari had dreams, big dreams, and he admired that. She reminded him of Prunella, with her courage and her strength, and the way she was suffering from unrequited love. He could help this woman the way he hadn’t been able to help his own daughter.

  And practicing his skills under the radar of the genie lords would be fantastic. Because, as amazing as the spinach salad was, Mari was right. He was rusty.

  They could help each other. She would give him opportunities to practice until he was ready to wipe the world clean in one swoop. And then he would give her dreamless peace the way he hadn’t been able to save Prunell
a.

  At last, perhaps, he would be given the chance to atone for the fact he had not been able to save his own daughter. Save Mari. Save the world. All in the name of his beautiful daughter.

  He smiled and felt the world shift to his power for the first time in centuries. The dream genie was reawakening, and soon the world would receive the greatest gift of all.

  It was time.

  He held out his hand. “I agree to the deal, my dear.”

  Mari shook his hand, and he smiled as he scanned her mind. Oh, yes, she would be easy to cleanse when it was time.

  The world would soon be resting in dreamless serenity.

  Chapter 9

  Dreams of hot, sexy warriors were good.

  Nightmares of being sucked into bottomless pits of fire, poisonous smoke, and monsters with really big teeth? Not so much.

  Or at least, she really hoped it was an illusion.

  Scalding hot air rushed past Natalie’s face as she catapulted down a bottomless pit of blackness. Glowing red eyes flashed in the darkness, claws ripped at her skin. Piercing shrieks of agony and howls of the damned ripped through the darkness. She screamed, scrambled to stop the fall, but there was nothing to hold on to. Her fingernails tore as she grabbed for the rocky walls, her grip failing as she plummeted toward the fire, toward the darkness, toward hell. The scent of sulfur burned her nose, tears stung her cheeks, and her skin bubbled with heat.

  “Natalie. Come back to me.” Nigel’s voice penetrated the fire and brimstone assault, and she clung to it, gasping as she fought for air, for consciousness.

  She caught the scent of chocolate, and it overrode the acrid pungency of the demon-infested sinkhole. The pit of hell sucked at her, trying to drag her back into it. She inhaled more deeply, latching desperately onto the smell of decadent chocolate, using the familiar scent to draw her back into consciousness, into safety.

  It’s only a dream, Natalie. It has to let you go. The heat began to fade. The screams retreated. She became aware of a cold, hard cement floor against her back. It hadn’t been real. There would be no scratches on her arms. No burns on her skin.

  Not real. Not real. Not real.

  “Come on, Natalie. Back to me now.”

  Nigel’s urgent demand jolted her the rest of the way into full consciousness, and she jerked her eyes open. She was lying on her back on the floor of her back room, fluorescent light glaring. She threw up her arm to protect her face, half-expecting a demon to leap out at her, teeth bared—

  “Natalie! Look at me.” Nigel moved, and suddenly a shadow broke up the blinding glare as Nigel leaned forward, his broad shoulders blocking the light.

  She saw he was sitting on a crate, looming over her. It was Nigel. Not a demon. Not a monster. He smiled and laid his hand on her cheek. “You’re okay. It was only a dream.”

  “Oh, God.” She put her hand to her forehead, felt the sweat beading. Relief shuddered through her body. Nigel was with her. His boot-clad feet were on either side of her head, and he was leaning over her, his forearms propped on his thighs. His presence was huge and powerful, chasing away the final remnants of the hell she’d just visited.

  “Nigel,” she whispered. “You’re here.” Her voice was raw, as if she’d been screaming, and it hurt to talk, as if she really had been falling down the hole of hell before Nigel had commanded her return. “I had another episode, didn’t I?”

  “You had something,” he agreed. “But you’re okay now.” He brushed his fingers over her cheek, and his touch eased her. “Are you working with Mari and Angelica?”

  His touch might be gentle, but the pink rose on Nigel’s cheek was so bright it was almost glowing, and muscles were ticking in his cheek. His palms were dark with embers, and his eyes were hooded and dark. The man was on edge, and he was fighting to stay in control.

  “I’m not working with them. I’d never do that.” She started to sit up, but Nigel’s hands went to her shoulders, holding her down on the bed of newspaper.

  “Your face is still gray. Stay.” His touch softened, urging her not to move instead of ruthlessly forcing her to bend to his well. But she knew it was still an order. He was in her space, and it didn’t feel all that nurturing and protective. The darkness in his eyes was edged with a dark unrest.

  “I need space.” She twisted out of his grip and sat up.

  He caught her before she pulled away, and he tugged her toward him until she was wedged between his knees. He was pure, lethal force, danger, and anger. Not directed at her specifically, but swirling like a rising tide of aggression. His gentle concern seemed to have vanished, replaced by a dangerous undercurrent of power.

  “Turn it off,” she said. She was way too on edge to deal with this kind of attitude from him. She tugged, trying to free herself to give herself distance from the energy swirling around him. “Nigel,” she said gently, “let me go.”

  Sudden awareness flashed in his eyes, and his gaze went to his hands, where he was gripping her so tightly. He jerked his hands back and loosened his knees, as if he were shocked to discover he’d been holding her so aggressively. “Shit. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She scooted back instinctively, even though a part of her wanted to reach out to him and help him chase away the shadows. “What’s wrong with you, Nigel?” This aggressive side just wasn’t like him. She knew him, she’d been watching him, and he simply didn’t do that kind of thing.

  “More than you want to know.” He didn’t stand. Didn’t move. Just kept his forearms resting on his thighs, his knees apart, as if she was still sandwiched between them. She could still feel the pressure of his legs on her hips when he’d held her between them. Heat poured through her at the reminder of how much more powerful he was than she. She supposed it should be terrifying, but it wasn’t. Because it was Nigel, and that made the knowledge compelling. Exciting. Stirring.

  “Tell me,” she said. “What’s wrong?” But even as she asked, she realized what it was. Relief rushed through her. “You need to draw, don’t you?” Without his art, he had no outlet for the darkness inside him. “Do you want a pen?”

  “No! I can’t afford to draw.” For a long moment, he simply breathed, as if he were trying to pull himself together. Fighting off an inner demon. His ribs expanded, his shoulders broadened, his muscles flexed.

  She took a step toward him, wanting to touch him, to help him… but she didn’t dare reach for him. Her urge to do it was too compelling and too scary, reminding her too much of how she’d felt with the Godfather. So, instead, she began to edge toward the door. Away from her desires, and away from the adrenaline surging inside him.

  Finally, he raised his head, and his eyes were softer. Not nearly as lethal as they had been. He was back under control. “Do you practice black magic?” he asked quietly.

  “Of course not. I already told you that.” When he didn’t come after her, she stopped slinking toward the door and forced herself to stand still. To face him. To face herself and the desires racing through her to touch him, to tap into the storm brewing inside him. She wanted to help him. Wanted to restore his peace. “I don’t know anything about magic. It’s not my shtick.”

  He nodded once and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I knew that.”

  She frowned at his acquiescent tone, and she knew he really did believe her. “Then why did you ask?” But even as she posed the question, something inside her relaxed at his acceptance of her answer. He trusted her. He wasn’t a man who put any stock in the claims of women, and yet he had faith in her, even when she was apparently leaking Angelica smut all over everything. As he always did, he saw her as the woman within, not the person on the surface.

  Instead of answering her query, he held out his palm. It was still blackened, and embers were sloughing out. The ashes were no longer red hot. Just white, as if the fire had gone out, leaving behind remnants and soot. “Give me your hand.”

  She started to reach for him, and a chunk of charred ash dropped off his hand onto
the floor. It sizzled on the concrete and then flickered out. She stopped and closed her fingers. “I’m not fireproof.”

  He inclined his head once in silent acknowledgment, and then raised his hand higher, inviting her to trust him. But who was he asking her to trust? The creative genius who used to sit pensively and draw, or the one who had yanked her close with unrest in his soul? Who was the real man?

  The artist. Yes.

  But so was the turbulent warrior.

  “Give me your hand,” he repeated.

  She saw the dark, threatening depth to his eyes, the muscles flexed so rigidly in his shoulders. He crooked his index finger. One movement. One flick. So subtle. A plea for her help, a need so desperate he wouldn’t ever admit to it. But she felt the tension in his body, his fear that she would say no. Beneath the violence and the anger was the man who had watched over her so carefully from a distance for the last three weeks, the warrior who had come to her aid today when she’d needed him.

  This man, this warrior, this living creature of fire… he needed her.

  It was who she was to help. Any man. But especially, especially Nigel. The need to help him was so much stronger than she’d ever felt with anyone else. “Okay.” She unfurled her fist and set her hand in his.

  For a moment, he simply held her, his grip light and tender, almost as if he was mesmerized by the feel of their connection. Her belly tingled with anticipation, and she realized exactly how much her soul yearned for his touch. For him to pull her into his strength and kiss her—

  “Oh, God.” A cold fear swept through her, and she started to pull away, but he tightened his grip.

  “How long have you had this?” he asked.

  She tensed at his demanding tone. The artist was gone. All that was left was the fierce warrior who’d pinned her between his thighs. Which, she had to admit, was a little bit exciting. Terrifying, but also deliciously compelling. “Had what?”