That night, I sit propped up in bed, staring at the romance book in my hands. The guy on the cover even looks like Dex in a way—aside from the large black wolf walking at his side, of course. They both have an edgy, mysterious, dangerous vibe that is almost magnetic.
"Why are the bad boys like that?" I roll my eyes but open the book anyway, flipping to the place where I left off.
Of course, the mysterious creature that finds the heroine running through the woods is a wolf. He finds her and saves her and takes her back to his 'pack,' which I have a little giggle about. But the fantasy of it is captivating. Living in a secluded, beautiful forest with a handsome man who is absolutely head-over-heals for you… I could totally leave the rest of the world behind for that. Separate from all the dramas and complications of governments and society. Not that this fictional wolf pack doesn't have dramas of its own… apparently there is an ancient plot amongst its people that needs sorting out.
The most intriguing part of the story so far though is the bond that the male and female leads share. It's called a mate bond, and it's described in such a familiar way that it's almost uncanny. I think about how sparks shot down my arm today when Dex and I shook hands. I suppose there are magical kinds of bonds between humans that can't entirely be explained either.
These dreams of Dex are an obvious example. I doubt I'm the only person in the history of the world to have this happen to. If only I could find an example of one person who has shared my experience, it might make me feel better and give me some clues about why this is happening to me and what to expect.
I set the book back on my bedside and remove Nana's locket, staring at it thoughtfully for a minute. Nana always told the best stories. None of them dealt with romance, but her stories were always so entertaining and magical and full of wisdom. Even when she was talking about magical creatures and adventures of all kinds, I could sense that there was more. There were elements of truth that were important for life even if I couldn't tell at the time what they were.
Of course, as a child I wanted to believe that all of her stories were real, and she never denied it. She always laughed, that kind smile of hers so pleased to have captured our imaginations for a short period of time. She said that stories were important. They were important, because they allowed us to dream. They allowed us to imagine the impossible as possible. And there is no other magic greater than that.
Turing off the bedside light, I settle into my covers again. This time, I'm not quite as terrified of what awaits in my dreams. At least I know who this man is now, and for some reason—I'm not entirely sure why—that gives me comfort.
Eventually a dream does come, and Dex is there. This time he isn't in bed with me. He is sitting in the room watching me sleep with a small, patient smile. When I shove the covers back and ask him what he's doing here, he climbs in to bed next to me. And I let him—like always. It's as if he belongs here with me, even though I know that isn't possible.
"I don't want you to worry anymore," he says softly, pulling my head onto his shoulder and caressing my hair. "There is nothing to worry about."
And in the deeply illogical world of dreams, I accept this simple statement like it is the most profound, most encompassing wisdom that I have somehow failed to grasp until this moment. Maybe it's because I'm in his arms. Maybe it's because he isn't just touching my body this time—he's touching my heart.
And this time, I sleep the whole night through, not waking until morning.