Dreamfever (Fever #4)

by Karen Marie Moning

arch up against him. “And I am trying to help you help me,” I explain patiently. My beast is dense sometimes. He growls and drops his face in my neck. But he doesn’t kiss or nip it. I grunt my displeasure. When he lifts his head again, he wears a mask of impassivity that does not promise more of what I want. My hands are still trapped in his. I head-butt him. He laughs, and for a moment I think I have won, but then he stops and says, “Sleep,” in a strange voice that seems to echo with many voices. It pressures my skull. I know what it is. This beast has magic. I have magic, too, in a place in my head. I push back at him with it, hard, because I want what he has and he will not give it to me. It angers me that he resists, so I push into him, I try to make him do what I want him to do. With my beast magic, I search for his weakness to use it against him, like he’s trying to use mine. Then something gives way, and abruptly I am no longer snug between the pleasure of silk at my back and man at my front but— I stand in a desert. I am inside my lover’s body, staring out from his eyes. I am mighty, I am vast, I am strong. We breathe stiflingly hot night air. We are alone, so alone. A scorching wind gusts across the desert, kicking up a violent