Chapter 112: Memory 4

BONNIE

He squirmed against the wall, searching for any angle that didn’t set his ribs grinding like broken glass. I held my ground. I had to. If I eased up for even a heartbeat, the fragile edge I’d carved out would vanish, and I couldn’t let that happen. Not with him. Not with whatever he truly was.

"I came here in my true form," he continued, his eyes never leaving mine. "Not a disguise or a projection. This is the real me, or as close to it as I can manage in this limited medium. And you must have noticed. You must be wondering. Why do we look so similar, little dream walker? Why do you have my hair? My eyes? My lack of pigment?"

"We look nothing alike." The words came out too fast, too defensive. I hated myself for saying them, for proving him right. "You’re delusional. You took this form because you’re trying to mess with my head, and I refuse to let you."

"Do you?" He tilted his head, considering. "Do you really refuse? Or are you just saying that because admitting the truth would break something inside you that you’ve spent your whole life trying to keep intact?"

I opened my mouth to answer, to scream, to hurl every denial I had at him, but the pressure I’d been holding snapped. Only for a second. Just the smallest slackening in my shoulders, a fleeting release of the mental grip I’d locked around him.

And that was all it took.

He dropped to the floor, landing in a crouch so fluid it seemed rehearsed, almost graceful. His hand flicked out, palm up, and something invisible crashed into my chest—not flesh, not quite, but real enough to hurl me backward. My focus splintered. The power I’d gathered scattered like a flock of startled birds.

I clawed for my power, desperate to rebuild the wall between us, but he was already in motion. Already upright. Already stalking toward me, that smile carved into his face, blood streaking his chin, not a flicker of pain in his step.

"You have excellent control," he admitted, circling me like a shark. "For an amateur and someone who only just learned she had power worth respecting. But you’re not strong enough yet. Not experienced enough. Not angry enough."

He raised his own hand, and I felt the pressure build again, but this time it was against me. Invisible hands wrapped around my torso, lifting me off my feet, carrying me backward until my spine connected with the opposite wall. The impact drove the air from my lungs. Stars burst behind my eyes.

"I, on the other hand," he continued, closing the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps, "have had centuries to practice. Centuries to refine my technique. To learn exactly how much pressure a ribcage can take before it cracks. How much force a skull can withstand before it caves. Would you like to know the exact measurements?"

I fought against his grip, forcing my power outward to meet his, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a paper fan. He was stronger. Overwhelmingly stronger. The space between us wasn’t a gap; it was an abyss.

He halted just inches from me, close enough that his scent filled my senses. Blood, yes, but layered with something cold. Like iron chilled by winter. Like snow steeped in pine, smoke, and the memory of old violence.

"When I smelled your blood," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear despite the cold rolling off his skin, "that second night. When I cut into you on the edge of my dreams and the scent hit me like a physical blow. Do you know what I thought?"

I turned my head away. He caught my chin with his free hand, forcing me to look at him. His fingers were ice against my jaw.

"I thought, ’Impossible.’ I thought, ’This is a trick. This is some powerful glamour, some illusion meant to distract me.’" He laughed again, softer this time. Almost fond. "But it wasn’t. It was real. Your blood sang to me. It recognized me. And I found that I could not follow through with my original intention. I could not kill you. Not when you smelled like family. Not when you smelled like mine."

"You’re lying." The words came out choked, barely audible.

"Am I?" His thumb traced my cheekbone, a parody of tenderness. "Blood is thicker than water, do you not think so... daughter?"

The world tilted.

Daughter?!? ℴℴ𝘮

He’d said it. The word I’d been dodging since I first saw his face. Since I caught the echo in his hair. Since that awful, inescapable recognition twisted in my gut, where instinct ruled and logic dared not go.

"No." I shook my head, or tried to, but his grip held me still. "No, that’s not possible. My mother would never—she wasn’t—she wouldn’t have—"

"She wouldn’t have what?" He interrupted, his voice gentle now, coaxing, the way people spoke to frightened animals. "Wouldn’t have lain with a man you deem a monster? Wouldn’t have opened her legs for a creature like me? A man who, before this, wanted to end your life?"

His eyes searched mine, looking for something. Confirmation, maybe. Or denial. I couldn’t tell which he wanted more.

"You’re not supposed to exist," he murmured, almost to himself. "I am not supposed to have a child. The curse saw to that. Her curse locked my seed in stone, made me barren as winter earth. So I do wonder. What exactly is her goal? What game is she playing, allowing a child of my blood to actually walk the earth before I bend the knee?"

I shuddered. The words were too familiar. They echoed what the goddess had said when she possessed Fia, her voice breaking as she tried to explain why my existence was forbidden.

But this man, this monster, couldn’t be him. He couldn’t be the one my mother loved, even for a moment. The one who gave me half my blood, half my soul. He was a killer. A psychopath who tried to erase me just for trespassing in a dream he claimed as his own. He wasn’t a father. He was a nightmare dressed in human skin.

"You’re lying," I repeated, finding my voice again, finding the anger that had carried me this far. "You’re trying to get inside my head. You’re trying to make me doubt myself, doubt my mother, doubt everything. And I refuse. I refuse to let you do this."