Psyche's Heart : CUPID'S MATCH BOOK 3

Chapter 33

"Dreaming of you?!" Irritation surges through my veins as I sit on the tiled floor. "I was not!"

My voice echoes around the empty bathroom. There's no reply. Valentine has already gone.

I rub my clammy face hard with my hands. My muscles ache, my throat feels like it's been ripped to shreds, and my mouth tastes sour and acrid.

And I don't like the suggestive way Valentine just spoke to me. If he's been on my mind it's only because he's been evilly plotting against me and the cupids for the past month. And because – somehow with the help of his friend – it seems he's been somehow manipulating my dreams.

Why else would I be thinking of him?

I exhale, then slowly – my bones feeling heavy – I push myself to my feet. Shaking slightly I make my way to the sink – gripping its cool edge and surveying myself in the small gilded mirror above it. My eyes are red and my skin pale and sickly looking. Strands of my dark hair cling to my face – shiny with sweat.

I can still feel the memory of Valentine's hand on my back, his hand in my hair, and I turn on the tap and splash my face; trying to cleanse myself of the feeling.

Then, somewhat dubious thanks to the last water I drank here in the Underworld – I cup my hand beneath the running water and tentatively sip from it. It eases the burn in my throat and I take some more – gulping greedily.

Was I dreaming about him when I was tortured? I remember Cupid, Cal, and Crystal suggesting the Oneiri were involved when I said I'd been communicating with Valentine. Charlie had discovered they were gods who ruled over dreams.

If Valentine's friend is the God of Dreams – then I suppose it makes sense.

I try to cast my mind back to the torture I endured. I was unconscious for a lot of it. Did I dream when I blacked out? I think I remember a cave. And something glowing – white – in the darkness. I try to grab onto the fuzzy images – to make sense of them.

And then the memory of Valentine's blue eyes – meeting mine – jolts back to me. But was that a dream? Or was that when he came to save me? I think of my head against Valentine's chest. I think of feeling light and warm – the world moving beneath me as his scent flooded my senses.

I splash my face again before glancing in the mirror - staring into my swollen eyes.

I don't want to think about that. I don't want to feel grateful for something I'm sure he did for his own self-interests. I need to arrange my fuzzy, distorted thoughts.

For now, I'm just going to have to take this one step at a time – making sure I don't let slip to Valentine how much trouble I'm actually in.

And I am in trouble.