CYRUS HAD FALLEN INTO AN endless pit of darkness, the tug of sleep so severe that, at first, he wasn’t even certain he was dreaming. He’d seemed to plummet from a great height for what felt like centuries, lengths of smog tightening around him like bands of steel. His chest constricted as he hurtled toward this horrible infinity, his terror so consuming he could hardly draw breath to scream before cleaving, suddenly, through a lacework of night. This grotesque tapestry unraveled only to promptly ensnare him, his body a veritable bobbin as inky, tar-like strands caught around his head, his legs, his torso. Then, just as suffocation seemed a certainty, he broke his

arms free and tore the greasy webbing from his face, drawing a frantic breath before hitting the ground with a horrible crack.

His skull fractured as it struck stone, and pain exploded throughout his body. Cyrus made a sound of anguish as the crushed enamel of his teeth met his tongue, the grit growing slick as blood pooled in his mouth. It was difficult to ascertain the full extent of his damage, but he suspected his ribs were broken, and then, as he wheezed, that a lung had been punctured. One of his arms had effectively snapped, a jut of bone pushing through the dark

wool of his sweater, and his legs – his legs felt wrong in ways he couldn’t decipher.

But then, this wasn’t new.

For eight months his nightmares had followed the same sequence, adhered to the same rules. Always, they began with darkness; always, they followed with agony. This imagined torture was as real to him as his mother’s hatred, and echoes of these miseries lingered on in his waking

hours with a verisimilitude that haunted him.

Like a wounded animal Cyrus dragged his body across the pitted floor of this unknown hell, searching fruitlessly for an exit. The smell of sulfur filled his head, and he spat, with difficulty, the strange cocktail of blood and silt from his mouth, dazed by the dull plink of a broken molar as it hit the ground. His jaw felt broken. A kneecap had shattered. He was breathing painfully, his head swimming as he struggled for oxygen. Somehow, he understood he was dreaming; somehow, his consciousness was able to break this fourth wall even as he heaved himself across the bleak planes of his imagination – and yet, the knowledge that he was dreaming offered him no comfort, for he could never be absolutely certain that a nightmare wouldn’t kill him.

Finally, he met with resistance.

With his good hand he clawed at what proved to be an oily barrier, his fingers catching in a thick, gelatinous substance that refused to yield.

Desperately he freed himself from the muck, his heart pounding in tandem with his head. Cyrus was drawing breath in small, frantic gasps, an immobilizing dizziness leaving him no choice but to surrender. He collapsed, hard, onto his back. Cyrus was fully drowning – his lungs filling with fluid as he stared into the lightless murk – when Death reached a hand down his throat, grasping around for his soul. And then –

She appeared as the dawn did: a slow burn of light that soon suffused with color, focusing into a radiance that blinded him. Always, the sight of her was miraculous. Always, his body trembled in anticipation.

This time, he knew better.

Finally, he knew who she was; knew her name; knew, above all else, that these visions had been designed to break him – that in fact he’d already been broken. Cyrus could no longer afford to give in to her sweetness, not even here, in the privacy of his mind. Through the thick of incoherence, he

fought to look away from her, curling inward as if he might blot her out of his imagination. This achieved nothing.

She came to him as she did every time, without fear.

“Cyrus,” she whispered, drawing deeper into the dark. “Where are you?”

“No.” He panted, kicking painfully at the ground to get away from her. He could hardly form words for the devastation of his teeth, tasting blood as he spoke. “No – please – stay away from me –”

She found him and touched him – a single stroke of her hand along his arm – and he cried out, his body seizing as a torrent of bliss drove through him, invigorating his body with a relief so intoxicating he nearly wept.

“Please,” he said, begging now. “Please don’t do this to me – not now, not ever again –”

“Don’t be afraid,” she said, crouching to look him in the eye. “I only want to help you.”

“No – No –”

“Look at you,” she whispered. “Look how you suffer.”

“Please, don’t come near me,” he pleaded, hating the pathetic rasp of his voice. “Show me no mercy – Leave me here to die –”

“Abandoned,” she said softly. “Neglected. Vilified –” “No –”

“The injustice is too great.”

She dropped to her knees before him, took his bloodied face in her hands, and he cried out, his head tipping back as a euphoric blitz filled his lungs, allowing him to breathe deeply for the first time. His chest heaving, his body trembled with abandon; the resulting ease was so extraordinary he struggled to remember why it was wrong. With excruciating tenderness she kissed his temples, then his forehead. Hot tears fell from his closed eyes, silent sobs wracking his body.

Always she healed him as she touched him, each graze of her fingers mending a bone, a laceration, erasing pain. He cried out every time,

unimaginable feeling flooding his heart and mind, her very closeness sending him into a spiral of need so desperate he didn’t recognize himself. He soon submitted entirely to her touch, leaning into her hands as she drew them slowly down his body. The sensations were so blissfully torturous that he wondered, for a delirious moment, whether he’d died.

“Angel,” he breathed. “My angel.”

Carefully she prized from his body the remains of his tattered, bloodied clothing, discarding the lot before pressing a cool kiss upon his fevered chest. He jolted as if brought back to life, and when he looked at himself again he was shocked to discover that he was naked, entirely mended. His teeth had reassembled, his bone sat neatly in his arm. The pain had been lifted, but in its absence he was weak, filthy, and desperately parched.

She gathered his fragile body into her arms and gently laid his head against her chest, smoothing the hair away from his forehead even as he shook against her.

He swallowed over and over against the dryness in his throat, the feeling like coarse sand, and just when he thought he’d die of thirst, she touched her fingers to his neck. The small action seemed to slake his need at once, and he was marveling at this, at the extraordinary power she possessed, when she was suddenly wiping a clean, wet rag along his limbs, washing away the grime with almost impossible ease. From where she procured the water, he wasn’t sure. He wanted to ask her, wanted to understand, but he was losing a battle with consciousness, his mind wishing to rest. Soon, he was entirely restored; his body gleaming in her reflected light, she the moon in his interminable gloom.

She stroked his hair, her fingers soft and cool against his heated scalp. “Tell me what happened,” she said quietly. “Who did this to you?”

Cyrus struggled to keep his eyes open. “The devil,” he said. “It’s always the devil.”

“Rest,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “And leave the devil to me. I’ll make sure he never hurts you again.”

Cyrus exhaled with great feeling, the action dispelling the tension he’d been holding for so long. It broke him to know that she understood the depth of his suffering, that she’d put an end to his pain.

No one had ever cared for him as she did.

Finally, his eyes closed. A feeling of calm overcame him, allowing him to rest as he never did in her absence. Here, he was safe. With her, he was safe.

When he opened his eyes again, they were lying in his bed.

She was naked in his arms, the silken crush of her lush curves a

delicious relief against the hard planes of his body. She was smiling up at him, tracing the shape of his collarbone, and his heart ached at the sight of

her. That she existed at all was a miracle; that she cared for him seemed impossible. What had he done to earn the love and affection of an angel?

When he expressed these feelings aloud she often laughed, accepting his adoration as a tender exaggeration; she had no idea how much he held back, how much more he wanted to say. He was in fact so in awe of her he could hardly breathe in her presence, and when she playfully nudged his chin upward with her nose, stretching to kiss the underside of his jaw, he thought his chest might cave in.

“You’re awake,” she said, drawing back to look at him. “You’re here,” he breathed.

She laughed at that, then bit her lip, and her eyes were so joyous and beautiful the sight caused him physical pain. She noticed this change in him, and her happiness dimmed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, even as he felt the rise of something fevered inside him, his heart threatening to beat through his chest. With great care he took her face in his hands and marveled at the feel of her, the glorious sight of her. He was enchanted by everything: not just her deep, limpid eyes, but the delicate arches of her brows, the fine shape of her nose, the soft pout of her lips. More extraordinary was that her beauty was but a vessel, physical majesty forged for a soul so tender it defied description.

“When you’re here,” he said, “nothing is wrong.”

Her wry, responding smile said she didn’t believe him, but she was merciful enough to spare him an interrogation. Slowly she turned her head, pressing a kiss to his palm, the pleasure of which he experienced with a sharp pang.

“Sad boy,” she said softly. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

He stared at her mouth, the soft line of her jaw, the swell of her breasts against his chest. Her very proximity inspired in him a feeling of exhilaration so profound it left him dizzy. He dragged his eyes upward, meeting her gaze with a need that scared him. “Anything.”

She almost laughed.

But Cyrus was shaken, watching her with a hunger he couldn’t fathom into words. “You could probably kill me and I’d thank you for it.”

She stiffened and drew back. “Don’t say that,” she said sharply. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Cyrus –”

“I want it all, angel. Not just your joy but your sorrow. Not just your hope but your fear. I want your anger and disdain, your frustration and contempt –”

She made a breathless sound. “I would never treat you with contempt.” “I know,” he said, sweeping his thumb along the crest of her cheek, his

eyes following the gentle motion. He was hardly able to stay the tremor in his hands, or in his voice. “But I know, too, that you’ll always do what is

just. You’d never deliver me your scorn unless I deserved it, and should I be foolish enough to inspire your anger, I should also be honored to receive it.”

She stilled, her lips parting in surprise.

She looked suddenly vulnerable as she shook her head, her eyes glistening with an evidence of feeling that seemed to gouge a hole in him.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Always, this rendered him speechless.

Finally she smiled, small at first, then mischievous as she crawled on top of him and straddled his hips. He made a sound deep in his throat, his eyes closing as her weight settled against him; and then she slid her hands down his torso and he sucked in a breath, the collective pleasure so acute it rivaled agony.

She bent to kiss his brow, his closed eyes. She drew the tip of one finger down the sharp slope of his nose, and he opened his eyes in time to see that her cheeks were flushed. “So gorgeous,” she said softly.

These words caused him nothing but anguish. He stared up at her, his mind detaching from reason as he drank in the sight of her naked body. He wanted to live here, with his face pressed against her, to breathe only in her atmosphere. He ran his unsteady hands up her back, terrified by the storm of emotion gathering inside him.

He felt wild.

She adjusted herself against him and he stiffened, gritting his teeth as he swore. She laughed, but he could feel her – could feel her own desire gathering between them. He was impossibly taut, afraid to move even an inch against her, and she gasped, suddenly, as he flipped her on her back, pinning her languid body beneath him. She was softness everywhere, silken skin catching his hard edges, and he shifted his weight, careful not to crush her. Her lips were still parted on a breath, her eyes darkening with hunger as she stared up at him. He felt the heat of her gaze along his body, then the

sound she made when he touched her, stroking her sensitive skin with a featherlight caress. Her low moan set his blood ablaze.

He loved all of her: the shape of her lips, her hips, her slender hands and the freckle at the base of her throat. He’d kissed that freckle a thousand times, had spent countless hours learning her, loving her, discovering the

desires of her body. It didn’t matter how many nights he’d spent in her arms. Always, in her presence, he felt himself coming apart with a need that felt a great deal like madness.

He devoted himself now to kissing her neck, then lower, soothing the heavy curves of her, first with his hands, then his mouth. Her body trembled under his careful, focused attentions until she cried out, the sound of her unbound pleasure branding inside him, driving him to the edge of his self- control. He pressed his face to her neck, fighting for restraint as his heart beat violently against his ribs.

Even now he could feel her growing desperation, his own insatiable desire. He hardly knew himself like this, so intoxicated he thought he might die if he didn’t taste her, everywhere.

“Cyrus,” she gasped.

She reached between them, tried to close her hand around him, and he made a strangled sound, too overcome to care that his body was shaking.

“Please,” she said breathlessly.

His heart was still beating at a dangerous pace, his own physical distress drowning out an ability to form coherent thought. Still, he forced himself to move slowly, drawing his hands down her legs with a quiet reverence, trailing kisses along her calves and ankles as he gently spread her open. He slipped his hands under her thighs, then hooked her knees over his shoulders.

The sight of her like this, vulnerable and trembling and ready for him – Her eyes were radiant, her breasts lifting as she struggled for breath.

She was so beautiful he could hardly bear to look at her. “Cyrus –”

“Not yet,” he said.

He lowered his head to the heat of her, and she nearly screamed, her hands grasping at the sheets as he tasted her, her soft cries rending the

silence over and over. She’d chosen him – trusted him – to know her like this, to protect and pleasure her heart and body, and this astonishing reminder filled him with a blinding ecstasy. He loved watching her come

apart, loved the way she gave herself over to him so completely. He loved that he could feel her spiraling, nearing release –

“I want you,” she said, reaching for him. “Please – I want you now, I want to feel you –”

He retreated with torturous care, pressing a final kiss to her heated core as he shifted away, his hunger only intensifying as his eyes devoured the sensual lines of her supple body. He touched her where he’d tasted her, felt the evidence of her need and groaned, burying his face in her shoulder. She had so much power over him it was terrifying even to examine the way she owned his soul. When he finally managed to meet her gaze, his heart seemed to detonate in his chest – and her eyes, heavy with desire, shone briefly with amusement.

“Are you” – she bit her lip, fighting a smile – “Cyrus, are you trying not to look at me?”

His answer was breathless. “Yes.” “Why?” Her smile grew wider.

“You already know why.”

She actually laughed this time, and he bent his head to her body and kissed her, everywhere, until her eyes were no longer entertained. Her breathing grew fast and shallow as her desperation peaked, and she reached for him where he needed her most, the feel of her hands offering a relief that only multiplied his anguish. Suddenly – urgently – she said his name, and he looked up, immobilized, caught in the crossfire of her attentions.

“Do you know what I love most about you?” she whispered. She was still touching him, and he was rocked by a fresh tremor of feeling.

“No,” he rasped.

He could never quite believe this was happening. That she would look at him like this, want him like this. She was the rare combination of heart and beauty only ever encountered in dreams. And this – he blinked, then hesitated, confusion pulling at the edges of his mind – this –

Without warning his head clouded; his lungs contracted in his chest. He felt as if he was pitching forward, falling out of his body. He didn’t understand – he couldn’t sort through his thoughts – and what was he

remembering? Gasping for breath now, remembering –

This was a dream.

Yes, a dream, but he knew that, didn’t he? He knew he’d been dreaming, knew she was a figment of his imagination, a manipulation of his

mind, a corruption installed in his head – “No,” he breathed. “No –”

He was going to be sick. His leg screamed with pain, his hand burned, his head pounded, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe and he’d known

– of course he’d known she wasn’t real, he’d known she didn’t actually love him, that she would never – never –

“Cyrus?”

“NO,” he cried, jolting away from her. “No – no –”

“Cyrus –” She reached for him, alarmed, but he tore away, his limbs tangling in the bedclothes.

“Don’t – Please –” He dropped his head in his hands. “Oh God – not again – I can’t – I won’t survive it –”

“What’s happening?” she said, panicking. “What’s wrong – ?”

“No – no – NO,” he shouted, falling off the bed. “This isn’t real, this isn’t real – wake up, you fucking idiot – wake up, wake up, WAKE UP –”