Haunted Rayne

28 | From the Ashes (part 1)

It is early morning when Rayne Foster realizes she is not alone in this bed. Her small frame is pressed against lean muscle, her fingers curled around his side. Strong arms pull her closer. Sleepily, she nuzzles her nose into the warmth of his neck, before suddenly, she remembers where she is.

Mr. Matthews' dorm room.

Rayne whips away from his body with force, but a hand catches the small in her lower back, pulling her hips firmly back to him. Trembling, she looks up to meet his eyes, and without warning, time itself . . . seems to slow down.

Sunlight bathes the walls, turning the room into a sanctuary of gold. Tiny, glimmering specks of light float lazily around them. Warmth rushes Rayne's cheeks, and even hotter tears instantly wash over them, her lips quivering over the breath before a sob.

"L-Lucas?" she breathes. She lifts a hand to his face, her fingers trembling as they touch his skin, and he nods softly, turning to plant a kiss on the inside of her palm.

In his presence, this unfamiliar room has been transformed. The bed, the sofa, the curtains—they all have a nearly translucent quality about them, gleaming faintly as if made of silk spun with light.

She sniffles, burying her face in his chest. "Oh, Lucas, I had the worst dream."

"I'm here, baby," he assures her, and his embrace is like a weighted blanket, keeping her from unraveling. She's missed this so much, their nights cuddled together in the darkness of that little shack. Only now does she realize that the most horrifying nights of her life had carried with them a beauty that she will treasure forever, a sort of timeless sweetness she had never known before and isn't sure she will ever know again.

Lucas's fingers caress her neck, tilting her head back, and he kisses her. Rayne's lips are still beneath his. The feel of it is strange, like kissing wet stones, so she pulls back, eyeing the sleek, rosy fullness of his mouth. Missing the taste.

Something is horribly wrong.

"This . . . is a dream," she realizes.

His hand cups her face. "It is."

Her breath hitches. "You're not . . . real?"

"I am," he says softly, running his thumb through the stream of her tears. "I am very, very real."

Her eyes snap up, her hand falling over his, desperate to hold onto him, pressing his fingers closer to her face, as though she could imprint the weight of him onto her forever. "What is this, honey? A-are you—?" She stops herself before she can say it.

Dead?

The word turns to ash in her throat.

He shakes his head gently. "No, I'm just . . . not awake right now."

"Lucas," she begins, and suddenly, she isn't sure how the sentence should end. Her eyes water again, though the tears never fully breach, and regret stings her face, her nose hot. There is a need within her. Her heart had been ripped completely open last night. When she saw his blood on the school grounds, everything—absolutely everything—she never had the courage to say finally rained over her, like shrapnel discharging from an inevitable explosive. In that moment, she realized the death of avoidance would have pained her far less than vulnerability ever could have. She feels the wound of it still, fresh and raw, and knows this may be her only chance. "Lucas, I . . . I love you. I'm so sorry I didn't say it before, but . . . I really do."

"I know," he whispers, those full lips curving into the softest smile she'd ever known. Though she senses something, relief perhaps, melting those honey eyes. "I love you, too, baby."