“Okay,” I whisper, unsure of whether I’m in trouble, or if he really just doesn’t care that his assistant gave him a rude nickname.
He walks over to where I’m standing, and I swear I see something shadowy pass behind his eyes. My skin pebbles as he brushes my shoulder, passing me and exiting the dining room. I follow him out. The hotel must’ve delivered the extra cot while I was showering because it’s set up next to the couch in front of the large-screen TV. It’s tiny—and it certainly won’t fit him comfortably.
“We should switch. That bed is so small, and you paid for the room?—”
“I’ll be fine, Francesca,” he says, stopping in front of it and crossing his arms. “Besides, demons don’t sleep.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s joking.
He made ajoke.
I smile. “Right. How could I forget?” My eyes flit over to the bed again. “Still, you should take the bedroom?—”
“The lock only works on the inside of the bedroom,” he explains, eyes narrowing. “Not the other way around.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Should I be locking my bedroom door?” I think back to the locked main door and his email sign-off.Don’t forget to lock your door. “What should I be afraid of?” I ask. To my dismay, my voice breaks slightly.
I see a hand curl around his bicep. “I’m an active sleeper,” he says, his voice low. “I tend to sleepwalk.”
“So? A lot of people do.”
His jaw tenses. “Just keep your door locked, Francesca.”
I stare at him for a few more seconds, but he’s distracted by something next to the couch—or avoiding eye contact for some reason.
“Fine. Good night, Dr. Kincaid.”
“Call me Dante,” he mutters.
“Only if you call me Frankie,” I retort, and then I walk to the bedroom, close the door, and turn the lock.
Devil’s Obsession
Dante
Two YearsAgo
An incoming email pings through my desktop speaker, but I ignore it in lieu of the man sitting across from me.Anxiety, insomnia, major depressive disorder.The insomnia is mostly a symptom of the other two diagnoses, but in his case, the insomnia hits first, and Colin is falling apart in front of me. He’s exhausted all other avenues, including therapy, hypnosis, and home remedies. As a psychiatrist who prescribes medication, this is usually the case with new patients.
I am a last resort—the last, desperate stepping stone when all else fails.
“I feel crazy, like I’m dreaming,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t. Sometimes I have these dreams that feel so vivid—” He suddenly stops talking and dips his chin.
“Tell me about the dreams,” I say, gently tapping my expensive fountain pen against the notebook I use to take notes during appointments.
“It’s horrible. I’m so ashamed,” he mumbles, face crumpling.
“Colin, you can tell me anything. I am here to help you. But I can’t help you if I don’t know exactly what’s going on.” He swallows and begins to rock back and forth. I watch him, silently assessing his behavior. “This is a safe space.”
He lets out a sharp breath of air. “I wake up sometimes on top of my wife. And I’m—we’re?—”
He starts to cry. “I feel like a horrible person. We’ve been married for twenty years, and this only started recently. She must think I’m a monster.”
“Do you mean you’re engaging in sexual behavior while asleep?” I ask gently.
He nods, and then he falls forward, sobbing.
“It sounds like you’re suffering from somnambulistic sexual behavior, which is a type of parasomnia.”
