Or what if it’s worse than a dream? an insidious voice whispered in the back of her mind.
No. She couldn’t think that. Not right now.
She was dreaming.
And yet…
“What are you?” she repeated.
He smiled, but it was softer this time, almost delighted. “You could have asked all sorts of things, you know. Who. Why. What are my intentions. But you went straight towhat.” His smile became almost a grimace, but he folded his arms and cocked his hips in obvious challenge. “What am I? I’m many things. A prince. A prisoner. A brother. A legacy. But that’s not what you meant, is it?”
“You look…” Her eyes moved over his glorious hair, his fine features, his elegant clothes. Beautiful. “…like an elf.”
But that wasn’t right, and when he smiled again, she saw his canines, that sharp flash, and knew. “Close, darling,” he said. “But not quite.”
Mia took a deep breath that did nothing to calm her pounding heart. She glanced over at the book she’d laid on the table; its cover depicted a long-haired vampire in medieval armor, arms around a human woman.
She exhaled in a rush. “Of course there’s a vampire in my living room,” she muttered, gaze flicking back to the intruder. “Of course.”
His grin was blinding. He sketched a deep, formal bow, hair sliding over his shoulders in gorgeous disarray. “Prince Valerian of Wallachia, ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
She blinked at him. “What kind of accent is that?” Because if she was dreaming, why not play along? It was the most entertaining thing that had happened to her in months.
He sighed. “I’ve just told you. Wallachian.” When she continued to stare, he said, “That’s in Romania, darling.”
“Ah.”
“I speak many languages, though. English, obviously. And I’m fluent in Slavic – written form, mostly; all the books were in Slavic when I was a boy – and Latin; Russian; French; Turkish; Greek. A little Italian.”
Breathe, Mia reminded herself. “Okay. Um. So you’re a vampire.”
“Quite.”
“Can you…turn into smoke? Is that what this is?” She gestured to him.
“Smoke?” His nose wrinkled and his lip curled. “No. This isn’t smoke. It’s an astral projection.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not really here, you see. Only my mind.” He tapped the side of his head. Then glanced around the room again. “Whereishere, actually?”
“Denver, Colorado.”
“Fascinating,” he hummed, but looked more concerned than fascinated. He turned back to her, clasping his hands behind his back; the movement pulled his cloak wide, revealing broad shoulders and a tiny waist encased in brocaded red velvet. “You haven’t introduced yourself.”
“Because this isn’t real.”
He tilted his head. “Of course it is.”
They stared at one another – studied one another. One of those long moments, stretched out slow like taffy. Almost sweet in the way she relished it. A moment for a careful decision: continue the charade? Or go call her doctor?
In the way of all drowning people, Mia grabbed for the charade.
“So…you’re a Romanian prince, huh?”
He smiled again, a kind of smile he hadn’t shown her yet, full of gladness. “What’s your name?”
“Mia. Mia Talbot.” She held out her hand, like an idiot.
His brows jumped, and for one fast second, he looked like he’d been slapped. But then his expression melted back to the way it had been, and he stepped forward. “Mia.” He extended his hand toward hers, slow and careful, and she marveled at the way his narrow fingers passed right through hers. “Pleased to meet you. You can call me Val.”
