I had seen things in Jaxon I couldn’t unsee. I had spent three years craving his approval, forgetting I was anything but his creature, the Pale Dreamer. In Oxford, I had started to discover who I was without him. To him, you are nothing more than quick flesh grafted to a ghost; a priceless gift in human wrapping. Warden was right. Just from glimpsing a few of my memories, he had known.
