Daunting Dream

Chapter 17.

Chapter 17: From Fury to Flames

Devon Drawson.

The moonlight spilled like silver wine through the tall windows of the honeymoon suite. The curtains swayed gently with the night breeze, carrying in the faint hum of the city below. From up here, twenty stories high, the world felt distant—almost unreal. Cars were little dots of light, horns muffled into whispers, and the people, the chaos, the noise… all of it too far away to matter.

I stood at the edge of the balcony, one hand gripping a half-finished glass of scotch, the other shoved into my pocket as if that could keep the weight in my chest from bursting out. The alcohol burned as it slid down my throat, but it wasn’t strong enough to quiet the storm inside me. Nothing ever was.

Somewhere behind me, the sound of laughter spilled out from the living room. Not just laughter—her laughter. Dream’s laughter. It rang like bells, messy and unrestrained, echoing off marble walls and crystal chandeliers. A sound that shouldn’t exist between us tonight. Not after the chaos, the fights, the way we had both sworn we hated each other only hours ago.

We were supposed to be fighting. That’s how the day started—hell, that’s how every day between us seemed to start. Tension. Fire. Fury. But here we were, celebrating a wedding neither of us had planned the way normal people did, drowning ourselves in alcohol, and making bad decisions with reckless abandon.

I turned slowly, leaning against the balcony frame.

Dream was dancing—or trying to. If spinning in uneven circles in an oversized silk robe counted as dancing, then she was a ballerina. The robe was mine, technically, though the way she wore it made it look better than it ever had on me. The belt had long since come undone, fluttering like butterfly wings every time she twirled. Her cheeks were flushed with champagne, her eyes glassy, her giggles spilling out without filter or shame.

She was chaos. Untamed, unpredictable, infuriating chaos. And she was mine now.

“Mr. Drowning Demon—oh, sorry, Devon Drawson!” she called out, wobbling toward me with a half-empty bottle of champagne in hand. Her voice slurred, but her smile was bright enough to shame the moon. “Why are you brooding like some Shakespeare villain? This is our wedding night, not a funeral.”

I quirked a brow, swirling the scotch in my glass. “You already tried to kill me twice today. What would you call it?”

Her lips curved into a mischievous grin. “Foreplay.” She winked.

And then promptly tripped over the edge of the rug.

I lunged forward instinctively, catching her before she could hit the floor. Her laughter dissolved into a surprised gasp as she landed against my chest, champagne bottle still clutched tightly like it was a newborn she was sworn to protect.

Her robe slipped down one shoulder, exposing smooth skin to the cool air between us.

And for one suspended second, we just stared at each other.

Her breath hitched. Mine stopped entirely.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the weeks of fighting, of circling each other like predators and prey. Or maybe it was simply her—the way she looked right now, vulnerable and bold all at once, daring me to take the next step.

There was something unspoken in her eyes. Wild. Daring. Heartbreakingly honest.

I leaned in slowly, giving her time to push me away.

She didn’t.

Our lips touched. Soft at first, hesitant, like we were testing forbidden waters. Then hungry. Desperate. Like we were both sick of fighting and this was the only language left we could speak fluently.

She moaned against my mouth, soft and shaky, and that single sound ended me.

I lifted her bridal-style, her silk robe falling open around her like a storm cloud of fabric. She squealed, kicking her legs in mock protest before wrapping them around me, anchoring herself to me as I carried her toward the bedroom.

“Don’t drop me, Devon! I swear I—”

“I swear I won’t,” I growled against her ear. “Now shut up.”

We crashed onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and laughter, sheets twisting around us. She shoved me playfully, I pinned her wrists above her head, she wriggled free, we both laughed like idiots who didn’t know how to stop.

I looked down at her, strands of hair falling across her flushed face, lips parted as though she’d just whispered a secret.

“Still hate me?” I asked, my voice rough.

She smirked lazily, eyes gleaming with mischief. “With every fiber of my being. Now kiss me, you arrogant Angora.”

Maybe I imagined it, maybe I didn’t—but I thought I heard her whisper something under her breath. Something softer. Maybe I don’t hate him that much anymore.

And I did. I heard it.

I kissed her like I was burning alive, like I needed her just to survive the flames consuming me from the inside out.

She kissed me back like she was daring herself to believe this could be real.

Clothes disappeared—how, I didn’t know, and didn’t care.

All I knew was skin against skin, her fingers tangled in my hair, my name gasped like a sin on her lips. Her back arched, her voice cracked, and my hands memorized every inch of her as if carving her into my bones.

The night blurred—not in a forgettable haze, but in a way that felt too good, too vivid, too dangerous to ever be erased.

---

Dream Dauntson.

The Next Morning.

The sunlight was blinding. Like karma. Like the universe itself was shoving a spotlight into my face and shouting, Congratulations, i***t, you did the one thing you swore you wouldn’t.

I groaned, shielding my eyes as I tried to sit up. My head throbbed with the kind of pain only champagne, poor decisions, and emotional whiplash could create. My mouth tasted like regret and chocolate frosting—don’t ask.

Then I froze.

Devon Drawson. Naked. Asleep. In my bed.

Correction: Our bed. Because apparently last night, I had gone and married the man I swore I hated, and then… oh God.

I looked down at myself, at the sheets tangled around me, at the bruised lips I could feel even without a mirror, at the faint scratches across his back that I knew damn well came from my nails. Pajamas? Missing. Dignity? Missing. Self-control? Dead.

No. No, no, no.

I reached under the sheets just to confirm what my dignity already feared.

Bare. Very bare.

Panic set in. My breathing quickened, my palms went clammy, and I debated whether suffocating myself with the pillow would be a valid solution.

“Devon?” I whispered, my voice sharp and small all at once.

He stirred, his arm stretching out, muscles flexing in a way that was both unfair and distracting. One eye cracked open, lazy and smug even in half-sleep. “Hmm?”

“Did we… did we have s*x last night?”

He blinked once, twice, then rolled onto his back, hands folding behind his head like he was sunbathing instead of detonating my life. “Yeah.”

“YEAH?!” My voice cracked into a squeak of horror. “That’s it? That’s your answer?”

He shrugged, maddeningly calm. “We’re married. It’s bound to happen anyway.”

I grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked him square in the face. Hard.

He chuckled against the fabric, his voice muffled. “Good morning to you too, Mrs. Drawson.”

I buried my face into the pillow I hadn’t just assaulted him with, mortified beyond repair. “I was drunk. We were both drunk! What if we made a mistake?”

What if it was a mistake? The question echoed through me like a curse, growing louder with every heartbeat.

He shifted closer, pressing a kiss against my temple. His lips were warm, steady, dangerously gentle. “The only mistake was not doing it sooner.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream. Instead, my stupid heart fluttered like it had been waiting for those exact words.

“Do you think this changes anything?” I asked, voice small, terrified of the answer.

He didn’t reply right away. The silence stretched heavy, heavier than any argument we’d ever had. Then he looked at me—really looked. Not with mockery, not with arrogance, but with something terrifyingly sincere.

My heart did that weird, traitorous flutter again.

I rolled away quickly, clutching the pillow like a shield. “Don’t talk to me. I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Shut up, Devon.”

“You’re still blushing.”

“I swear, I will stab you with a spoon.”

“Romantic.”

I peeked at him from behind the pillow, glaring. “Do you at least remember it? Or were you too drunk to appreciate my majestic skills?”

He smirked, raising a brow. “You mean the part where you demanded a second round while quoting Shakespeare?”

My jaw dropped. “No.”

“Oh yes,” he said smugly. “You said, and I quote, ‘Devon, smite me again with your sword of desire.’”

I gasped so loudly it could’ve cracked glass and immediately threw another pillow. He ducked, laughing uncontrollably.

“I hate you!” I shouted.

“Liar.”

I pouted, burying my burning face into the sheets. And yet, despite all the dramatics, despite the hangover and the chaos, I saw it—that smile. Small. Genuine. Unhidden.

I replayed the kiss in my head. The way he had looked at me—not like a pawn, not like a trophy, but like a person. Like maybe I wasn’t just Dream Dauntson. Maybe I was his Dream.

I sat up slowly, sheets wrapped around me like armor, though it did nothing to protect my heart. “Do you think this changes anything?” I asked again.

He studied me with that unreadable gaze, silence stretching thin. Then he reached for me, pulling me against his chest, lips brushing mine as he whispered, “I think everything already changed.”

And the worst part?

I think he might be right.

We lay there in silence, the chaos of our past thick in the air. But something new lingered too. Something dangerous.

Hope.

“Do you think this… us… is possible now?” I whispered.

He pulled me closer, his hand cupping my jaw as his lips hovered over mine.

“Looks like the impossible just became possible.”

From fury to flames, I thought.

What a ridiculous, beautiful mess we’d made.