And then Gage is there, watching from a distance, his face impassive as I'm bundled into the back of the SUV.
"You've always been mine," his voice echoes, though his lips don't move. "You just didn't know it yet."
The darkness closes in, suffocating, inescapable?—
I wake with a scream tearing from my throat, bolting upright in bed with my heart hammering against my ribs. Sweat plasters my nightgown to my skin, and I can't stop shaking. The room swims around me, reality and nightmare blurring together until I can't distinguish one from the other.
My hands fly to my face, half-expecting to find blood there. Finding only tears, I gulp in air, trying to ground myself in the present.
A soft knock at the door makes me flinch.
"Penelope?" Gage's voice, low and concerned, filters through the heavy wood. "Are you all right?"
I can't answer, still trapped in the lingering tendrils of terror. The door opens slowly, and Gage appears in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light from the hallway. He's wearing sleep pants and a t-shirt, his hair mussed, looking more human than I've ever seen him.
"I heard you scream," he says, remaining at the threshold, watching me with an expression I can't quite read in the darkness.
"I'm fine," I manage, my voice cracking in betrayal. "Just a dream."
He steps into the room but doesn't approach the bed. "About the mugging."
It's not a question. He knows exactly what haunts my sleep.
"Among other things," I say, pulling my knees to my chest, creating a barrier between us.
"May I turn on the lamp?" he asks, surprising me with the request for permission when he usually takes whatever he wants.
I nod, and soft light blooms from the bedside table, casting the room in gentle shadows. Gage looks different in this light, less the controlled businessman and more... something else. Something almost approachable.
"Would you prefer I call Marta?" he asks.
"No." The answer comes quickly, surprising even me. "No need to wake her."
He nods, then moves to the chair near the window, sitting down rather than invading my space. His posture is relaxed, non-threatening.
"Nightmares are the mind's way of processing trauma," he says after a moment. "There's no weakness in experiencing them."
I stare at him, caught off guard by the absence of mockery I'd expected. "Is that your professional opinion, Mr. Blackwood?"
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "No. Just personal experience."
The admission hangs between us, unexpectedly intimate.
"You have nightmares?" I find myself asking, curiosity momentarily overriding caution.
He studies me for a long moment. "Yes," he says finally. "Less frequently now than in my youth, but they never truly disappear."
"What are they about?" The question slips out before I can stop myself.
His gaze shifts to the window, where moonlight casts silver patterns through the glass. "Various things. Childhood memories, mostly. My father was not... gentle with failure."
The careful phrasing tells me more than a detailed explanation might have. I remember the documents mentioning that Gage had taken over the family business after his father's death, the way he tenses whenever the man is mentioned.
"My nightmare was about the mugging," I admit, the confession easier in this strange, suspended moment between night and morning. "Except in the dream, I knew it was staged. I knew what was coming, but couldn't stop it."
"The mind reconstructs events with the benefit of hindsight," he says, his tone almost gentle. "Inserting current knowledge into past experiences."
"Is that supposed to make it better? Knowing it was all orchestrated? That a man died as part of your... plot?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice.
