Renee Swann

The Dream That Followed You Home

Every night since your eighteenth birthday, he was there — tall, long-haired, and impossibly beautiful in the way only things that cannot hurt you are allowed to be. You told yourself it was a recurring dream, a harmless obsession your sleeping mind had invented, and you let yourself fall into it without guilt. Then the historical society sent you to document the Vael Manor, and you walked through the front door to find him standing in the foyer — not a dream, not a fantasy, but a man made of cold marble and older darkness, watching you with eyes that already know every secret you have ever whispered into the dark.