The Alpha Who Haunts My Dreams

The trees whispered my name before I saw the man. “Mireya.” The sound slipped through silver leaves. I stopped on the narrow path, my bare feet sinking into moss that glimmered beneath the moon. Every tree had pale, luminous bark. There was no wind, yet the branches stirred. I had never been here before, yet the forest made me feel as though I had been away too long. “Mireya.” This time, the whisper came from ahead. I should have turned around. I was sensible enough not to follow strange voices into unfamiliar places, especially when I could not explain how I had arrived. But this was a dream, I reminded myself. Dreams borrowed faces and stitched together nonsense. Whatever waited among these trees could not hurt me. The reassurance felt thin. I moved forward. The forest opened into a clearing, and a man stood beneath a tree whose branches curved above him like silver fingers. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in black. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and a narrow scar marked the skin beside his left eyebrow. When he lifted his face, the moon caught his eyes. Gold. Not brown with flecks of amber, not a trick of the light. His eyes shone a deep, startling gold, bright enough to make the rest of the clearing seem dim. He looked at me as if he had been waiting for me for a very long time. A strange ache opened beneath my ribs. It was not quite fear, though fear should have been the obvious response. It felt closer to grief, sudden and intimate, like entering an empty room and knowing someone who mattered had just left it. “Who are you?” I asked. He did not answer. His gaze travelled over my face, pausing at my eyes and mouth before returning to my eyes. Something in his expression tightened. For one brief moment, he looked almost relieved, then the relief disappeared beneath a sorrow so naked that I felt as though I had witnessed something private. I had never seen him in waking life and had no reason to care whether he was sad. Yet I wanted to cross the clearing and touch his face. Attraction to a stranger in a dream was ridiculous, and I folded my arms as if I could hide the reaction. He noticed anyway. His expression softened. “You came,” he said. His voice was low and rough around the edges. Hearing it made the ache inside me deepen, as though some part of me had been listening for those two words. “Where is this? How do you know me?” He glanced up at the moon. It hung enormous above the trees, too close to the earth. “You shouldn't be here.” “That isn't an answer.” “No.” His eyes returned to mine. “It isn't.” I took a step toward him. He watched me approach without moving, but the forest changed around us. The light beneath the trees brightened. A branch shifted overhead, and silver leaves drifted down, stopping just short of the ground before dissolving into sparks. I halted. The man looked from the leaves to me. Tenderness remained in his face, but grief had gathered behind it, edged with dread. “Did you do that?” “No.” “Then what did?” He said nothing. I knew better than to mistake silence for an answer, so I took another step. He moved at the same moment, closing the distance. My breath caught before I had decided whether he was safe. He smelled of rain and cold earth, a scent too vivid for a dream. His hand lifted, then stopped between us. He looked at his own fingers as if he did not trust them, and slowly lowered it again. “Tell me your name,” I said. A flicker crossed his face. “You know it.” “I absolutely do not.” “You will.” “That sounds like something people say when they have no intention of explaining themselves.” A brief, almost-smile touched his mouth, sending a ridiculous flutter through my stomach. I was not supposed to find a mysterious stranger charming. “Are you frightened of me?” he asked. “I haven't decided.” His gaze dropped to my hands, then lifted again. “You should be.” The warning should have settled the matter, but pain softened its edge. He seemed to be keeping me at a distance for my own good, which irritated me almost as much as it worried me. “Then give me a reason,” I said. “Tell me what this place is and why you look at me like you know what happens next.” His jaw tightened. For a moment, the whole forest seemed to lean toward us. Whispers threaded through the branches. I could not make out every word, but my name came clearly, repeated by voices that sounded almost human. The man turned sharply toward the trees. Whatever he heard made the last trace of warmth leave his face. When he looked back at me, his eyes were bright as molten gold, and his grief had become unbearable. “I thought I had more time,” he said. “For what?” He reached toward me again. This time, his fingers brushed the inside of my wrist. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but warmth travelled up my arm. Beneath the fear and confusion, longing rose so sharply that I nearly leaned into him. It felt less like wanting a stranger than remembering someone I had lost. I pulled my hand away. His expression changed, a small, helpless shift around his eyes. He looked at me as though my refusal had confirmed something he dreaded. I wanted to ask what I had done to him, and why his sorrow felt like mine. The moon dimmed. The ground trembled, and the trees whispered faster. The man stepped toward me. “Mireya, listen…” I woke before he could finish. I sat upright in bed, dragging in air as the familiar dark of my bedroom settled around me. The radiator clicked beneath the window. A car passed outside, its headlights sliding briefly across the ceiling. My heart raced, and my right hand was clenched around my left wrist. For several seconds, I could still smell rain and cold earth. I told myself that a vivid dream was not evidence of anything beyond a vivid dream. My mind could produce extraordinary nonsense, especially when sleep-deprived. But when I lowered my hands, I could still see the man's face with unnerving clarity: dark hair, the scar beside his left eyebrow, and those impossible golden eyes. I did not know his name or why he looked at me as if I had returned from somewhere he could never follow. Then I noticed the mark on my wrist. A thin silver line curved just beneath my pulse, delicate as moonlight beneath the skin. I rubbed it with my thumb. It did not smear or fade. There was no cut, no bruise, and no reason for it to be there. I had no explanation for the mark or the stranger who seemed to know me. I only knew the dream had not felt like a beginning. It had felt like going back.