Marked By Moonlight

Four: Dream Boy’s Got Issues

Chapter Four: Dream Boy’s Got Issues

Unknown POV

I watch her sleep, not like some lowlife creep lurking at her window, but through the soft, bendy haze of her dreams, where the world twists like silk caught in a breeze. Lyra’s tangled in her sheets, a mess of dark hair and silver streaks, her breath a quiet rhythm that pulls me deeper, like a siren’s call I can’t resist. Her body’s warm, alive, a pulse of magic humming under her skin, and that crescent mark above her heart? It’s mine. A promise I carved into her soul, a secret she doesn’t understand yet, but it’s there, glowing faint and fierce, tugging her to me like a thread I’ve been weaving since we were kids. Her name—Lyra—is a spark in my blood, a fire that’s been burning so long it’s part of me, and every beat of her heart feels like it’s answering a call only I can hear.

The dreamscape’s my playground, a realm of shadows and starlight where I slip through the veil, not touching her skin but her essence—her pulse, her magic, her restless, wild spirit. She’s sprawled across her bed, one arm flung out, her lips parted like she’s whispering secrets to the dark. I hover, weightless, my form a flicker of smoke and frost, my icy blue eyes drinking her in. She’s beautiful—always has been—but it’s more than that. It’s the way her magic flares, bright and untamed, a half-witch, half-fae storm that sings to me, even if she doesn’t know it’s my name on its lips. That mark, my mark, pulses with her heartbeat, a thorny crescent curling over her heart like it’s staking a claim no one else can touch.

I remember her as a kid, all sunshine and fearless laughter, running barefoot through the woods with me trailing behind, older, rougher, carrying shadows no one wanted to see. She wasn’t scared of me, not even when my magic sparked too cold, too dark, when the other kids whispered I was cursed. Her tiny hand in mine, her green eyes blazing like they could light up the world—it’s burned into me, a memory I carry like a blade. She’d tug me along, her voice bright, “Come on, Dorian, don’t be slow!” and I’d follow, because with her, I wasn’t just a broken thing. I was hers.

Flashback

We were eight and twelve, sprawled under a canopy of pines, the air thick with summer and secrets. Lyra was weaving flower crowns, her fingers quick, silver streaks in her hair catching the sun like starlight. “You’re my best friend,” she said, plopping a lopsided crown on my head, her grin so wide it hurt to look at. I smirked, hiding how her words warmed the cold in my chest, how her touch made my magic hum. “Forever?” I asked, half-joking, but my voice cracked, too serious. She nodded, solemn, her green eyes locked on mine. “Forever.” But the woods watched us, their shadows too long, and I felt it—a pull, a hunger, like something wanted her too. I tightened my grip on her hand, my magic flaring, a frost that made her shiver. “I’ll keep you safe,” I promised, and she laughed, oblivious, but that promise became my chain, my curse, my everything.

The memory stings, pulling me back to her dreamscape, where Lyra moans softly, her body shifting like she’s chasing something—or someone. Her dreams are warm, restless, a swirl of colors and heat, and I feel it, her want, raw and real, curling through the air like a song. My name slips from her lips, a whisper so faint it’s torture, and it sets me on fire, my magic surging, smoke and frost coiling around me. She doesn’t know it’s me, not yet, but her magic does, flaring bright, answering my call even as she sleeps. Those other guys—the ones the moon’s tangled her with, the ones who think they’ve got a claim—they’re nothing. A wolf, a vampire, a fae—they don’t know her like I do. They weren’t there when we stole apples from the orchard, when she cried in my arms after a fight with her mom, when she looked at me like I was more than the shadows clinging to my skin.

I want her—gods, I want her so bad it’s eating me alive. Want to kiss the curve of her neck, feel her shiver against me, hear her gasp my name like it’s the only word she knows. I want to step out of the dream, into her room, and claim her for real, body and soul, until there’s nothing left for anyone else. But I hold back, a shadow with a leash, bound by promises I made under a moon that’s never let me go. My magic’s a double-edged blade, shadow and dream woven tight, and if I push too hard, I’ll break her—or myself.

Her dreams turn spicy, a flush creeping up her cheeks, and I’m undone, my resolve fraying like cheap thread. She’s dreaming of touch, of heat, and I’m jealous, because it’s not me she’s reaching for—not consciously. Her fingers brush the empty space beside her, and I’m a fool, letting my magic slip, a tendril of frost grazing her wrist. She stirs, her mark pulsing, and I pull back, cursing myself. I’m too close, too reckless, but her nearness is a drug, her breath a blade carving my heart.

Those others—Mael, Silas, Soren—I know their names, their scents, their pathetic claims. The wolf thinks he can guard her, all growls and scars, but he’s too broken to see her fire. The vampire thinks he can charm her, with his smirks and red eyes, but he’s a leech, feeding on her light. The fae thinks he can guide her, with his honor and pretty words, but he’s too soft for her storm. They’re nothing, all of them, and if they try to take her, I’ll rip their world apart, shadow by shadow, until they’re dust.

I slip deeper into her dream, the veil thinning, and I see her—really see her. She’s standing in a forest, not the one by her town, but a dream-forest, all silver leaves and moonlight, her dark hair loose, her green eyes glowing like they did when we were kids. She’s wearing that turtleneck, hiding my mark, but it shines through, a beacon calling me home. I step closer, my form sharper now, pale skin and black hair, my icy eyes burning with everything I can’t say. “Lyra,” I whisper, and her head snaps up, like she hears me, like she feels me.

Her magic flares, blue sparks dancing around her, and it’s beautiful, fierce, a storm I want to drown in. “Who’s there?” she says, her voice sharp, all sass and fire, and I smile, because that’s my Lyra, never backing down. I don’t answer, not yet, but I let her feel me—a brush of frost, a whiff of smoke and cloves, the weight of my gaze. Her mark pulses, and she touches it, her fingers trembling, and I’m lost, my magic curling around her like a lover’s touch.

I should back off, should stop before I cross a line I can’t uncross. But her dreams are pulling me in, her want mirroring mine, and I’m weak, too weak to let her go. I lean closer, my shadow-form hovering over her, and whisper, “You’re mine, Lyra. Always have been.” Her breath catches, her eyes searching the dark, and for a moment, I think she sees me—really sees me.

But the dream shifts, her magic spiking, and I feel them—the others. Their presence, faint but real, like threads woven into her fate. The wolf’s musk, the vampire’s spice, the fae’s earth—they’re circling, drawn to her mark, to her fire, and it makes my blood boil. My magic lashes out, a pulse of shadow that ripples through the dreamscape, and Lyra gasps, her eyes wide, like she feels the war I’m fighting for her.

I pull back, my form fading, because if I stay, I’ll do something stupid—like drag her into my world, where the shadows don’t let go. One day, she’ll wake up and remember. The woods where we ran, my eyes that saw her soul, the promise we made under a moon that bound us tighter than any chain.

When she does, she’ll be mine—body, soul, and all the sassy, fiery spark that makes her Lyra. And those others? They’ll learn what happens when you try to steal what belongs to a shadow.

I slip out of her dream, back to the cold, empty dark, my heart a raw, bleeding thing. Her name’s still on my lips, a prayer, a curse, a vow.

Lyra.

I’m coming for you.