Chapter 8: Dream Manipulation
Emris stormed through the corridors of the mansion, each footstep pounding against the marble floors like the beat of war drums. His mind was a whirlwind of rage and confusion. He'd always known he was powerful—invincible, even—but this new revelation had torn something primal from deep inside him. He wasn't the main character. He wasn't the center of the universe, not the one pulling the strings. That bitch had written him as a supporting role, a tool to prop up *someone else*.
"How dare she? How fucking dare she!" he hissed, pacing faster as the memory of reading his story replayed in his mind. She had given him all the power, all the abilities to steal the spotlight—then yanked it away, leaving him to die. Like he was disposable.
The anger flared hot, searing through his veins like fire. His usual smooth, sarcastic demeanor gave way to a raw, animalistic fury. No mind games, no playful torment this time. He was going to kill her. Right here, right now. All bets were off.
He navigated the labyrinth of her mansion, the sprawling halls and endless rooms only adding to his mounting frustration. Why the hell did she need such a massive space to live by herself? His head throbbed with each turn. The hangover from the wine he'd guzzled earlier didn't help matters. "Fuck that wine," he muttered, rubbing his temples as if that would stave off the migraine clawing at his skull.
At last, he found her room.
He threw open the door, eyes blazing with murderous intent, fully prepared to end it. But then, all at once, his rage faltered. Roya was lying in bed, asleep, her chest rising and falling with a gentle rhythm. She looked peaceful, serene, as if she hadn't just unleashed hell into her own life by bringing him into this world. As if she weren't the very person who had condemned him to death on the pages of her manuscript.
He took a step toward her, fists clenched. He could do it. He should do it. Kill her, just like she had killed him in the story. Smother her with a pillow, maybe. Or grab the pen on her bedside table and stab her through the throat with it. Quick, clean, and poetic. That would do nicely.
Or maybe… kiss her until she suffocated beneath his lips.
Wait, what the fuck?
The thought slammed into him like a wall, and for a split second, he stood there, stunned. What the hell was that? He was supposed to be plotting her death, not... thinking about that.
His face twisted in a mixture of horror and disbelief. "What the actual fuck am I thinking?" he muttered under his breath. His voice sounded foreign, even to him. "Nobody heard that, right? Right?" He glanced around the room, as if it might hold some answer. "Good. We're going to pretend that thought never happened."
With a sigh, Emris slumped down onto the floor beside her bed, the sudden crash of emotions and confusion too much for even him to handle. His eyes wandered aimlessly until they landed on the drawer beside the bed. Without thinking, he reached over and opened it.
A driver's license.
He squinted at it in the dim light, her name printed in bold: Roya Amani. He let out a bitter chuckle, tracing the letters of her name with his eyes. It suited her—a name that was beautiful, mysterious, and slightly unsettling. He stared at her photo—no smile, just that same cold, detached expression she always wore. Her eyes in the picture were empty, like windows leading to nowhere.
"What a beautiful name for a rotten person," he whispered, tossing the license back into the drawer with a careless flick.
He turned his attention back to the real Roya, her hair draped across her face. Despite himself, despite the anger still simmering beneath his skin, he felt a strange pull. She was the source of his torment, but she was also the reason he existed. Without her, he was nothing. The thought struck him in a way that rattled the very core of his being. For all his power, for all his abilities, she had created him. She owned him.
His fingers hovered above her face, then moved on their own, gently brushing the strands of hair from her cheek. His touch was light, almost tender, and he found himself whispering, "You looked better with a smile. Even if it was a twisted one."
He watched her for a moment longer, feeling something shift inside him. He didn't understand it—not fully—but a mischievous smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned closer. His eyes sparkled with an idea, a cruel, playful one. Oh, I know exactly what I'm going to do.
---
Roya's dreams had always been strange, but this one was different. She felt a heaviness, a darkness that clung to the edges of her mind, and then he appeared. Emris, stepping out of the shadows, his silver hair gleaming under a strange, dreamlike light. His eyes locked onto hers, and she felt that familiar pull—dangerous, electric.
He moved toward her, each step slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. His smirk was playful, but there was something darker behind it, something that sent a thrill of fear racing down her spine.
"You really thought you could kill me?" he whispered in the dream, his voice wrapping around her like velvet. "You think you have any control over me?"
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, she felt his hand against her skin—first a gentle brush, then firmer, pulling her toward him. His touch was like fire, burning through the layers of her dream-self, and she found herself leaning into him. Her body betrayed her. She didn't pull away; she didn't fight. She let him pull her closer.
His breath was hot against her ear, his lips ghosting over her skin, sending shivers down her spine. She felt the tension building between them, thick and suffocating, but there was something intoxicating about it. The way he held her, the way his eyes bore into hers, made her forget for a moment who he was—what he was.
"Do you want me to stop?" he teased, his lips hovering over hers, taunting her, daring her to resist. She could feel her pulse quicken, her breathing shallow. She wanted to hate him, to shove him away, but her body craved the closeness, the heat, the danger.
And then, just as his lips were about to meet hers, the dream shattered.
Roya's eyes snapped open, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her skin was still tingling with the remnants of the dream. It had felt so real, too real. She could still feel his touch, his breath, the way his presence had dominated her.
She blinked, trying to shake the last vestiges of the dream from her mind, but as her vision cleared, she realized with a start that she wasn't alone.
Sitting on the floor beside her bed, his silver hair glowing faintly in the darkness, was Emris. His real, very much alive self.
"Good morning, dream," he whispered, his voice thick with amusement and something more dangerous. "Sleep well?"
Her blood ran cold as reality slammed into her. The dream wasn't just in her head anymore. Emris was real, and the tension between them was very, very real.