Chapter 148 Sweet Dreams
(Adelaide)
The dream found her before she found herself.
Not sight at first—weight. Heat pressed along her spine, steady and enveloping, the kind that seeped into bone and made muscles unclench without permission. Her breath slowed inside it, lungs filling easily, as though the air itself had decided to be kind.
Then came the warmth. A soft, enveloping warmth. A broad chest behind her. An arm wrapped around her waist. A slow, steady breath brushing the back of her neck like it worshipped the tiny hairs there. Heat soaked into her spine, a steady, comforting weight that made every muscle in her body sigh. The air smelled faintly of smoke and something darker, familiar as a heartbeat now—him.
Apollo.
The dream carried sound too—his breathing low and even, the faint hum of power under skin, like a cathedral filled with embers instead of candles. No chains. No screams. Only the quiet pressure of being held.
He held her the way a man might hold something precious. Not claimed. Not taken. Cradled. His forearm was a solid band across her middle, not restraining but anchoring, fingers splayed over the softness of her stomach, as if he were afraid she might drift away if he loosened his grip.
In the dream, she didn’t question it. She melted back into him, her body fitting his as if they’d been sleeping this way for years. Her spine curved into the line of him on instinct, her hips settling against his pelvis, her shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like lifetimes. The constant, braced tension in her limbs loosened, uncoiling like a rope finally slackening.
The room around them was indistinct, more suggestion than place—stone warmed by unseen fire, shadows bowed low like supplicants.
His hand drifted up her stomach, fingers spreading over her ribs, gentle… impossibly gentle. Each touch was a slow discovery, as if he were counting her bones through skin and memorising the fragile architecture of her.
When he kissed her shoulder, it wasn’t with hunger. It was with something that felt like belonging. His lips were warm, lingering, pressing a reverent imprint into the curve where neck met shoulder. A small shiver chased the contact, not from fear, but from the startling rightness of it.
“My Little Flame…” he murmured against her skin, lips curving with rare warmth. The nickname, usually a weapon or a taunt, slipped into the dream like a blessing.
She turned in his arms, their foreheads brushing. His golden eyes weren’t molten with lust—they were soft, molten with something she hadn’t seen from him before. The usual sharp edges in his gaze were gone, melted, leaving only warmth and a strange, aching tenderness that made her ribs feel too tight. His thumb stroked her cheek, slow and reverent.
Light pooled behind him, not firelight but something closer to dawn, the kind that stained everything gold and made even scars look holy.
When he kissed her, it wasn’t devouring. It was… tender.
The kind of kiss that made her heart lift painfully in her chest. It felt like stepping out into sunlight after years underground, too bright, too much, and yet impossible to turn away from. Her fingers bunched in the fabric at his shoulders as if she could hold the moment in place.
His hand slid lower, cupping between her thighs, stroking her with unhurried affection. No rush. No dragging, bruising grip. Just a patient, circling touch that made her breath stutter and her knees soften. The pleasure spread like warmth in winter, slow and seeping, filling all the hollow places inside her. It wasn’t hunger that moved through her—it was relief. Like something locked had been opened gently instead of broken.
Pleasure rolled through her like a sigh—slow, warm, blooming outward instead of crashing in. She gasped his name; he smiled against her throat, as if her pleasure fed him in a way no other fire ever had.
“Apollo…” She whispered it like a promise. Like a tether thrown out between them, fragile and shining, her heart foolishly tying itself to it.
His hand moved again, deeper now, making her knees tremble. She clutched his shoulders, breath shivering out of her. Her toes curled against nothing, dream-ground falling away as her entire world narrowed to the steady press of his fingers and the soft drag of his mouth along her skin.
The dream thickened, heat gathering like incense smoke. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the hollow beneath her ear.
“I will take care of you,” he breathed.
“I will not hurt you again.”
“I am yours.”
Her heart swelled—open, aching, hopeful. The words sank into her like water into parched earth, soaking into old wounds that had never been given the chance to heal. A part of her, the part that still believed in warm kitchens and safe beds and love that didn’t cost blood, reached for them desperately. Too desperately.
She almost believed him—almost allowed herself that fragile hope. Then doubt crept in, shadowing her relief.
A cracking sound split the dream, jarring her out of hope. Like a flame starved of air, dread swept in as warmth shuddered around her, colours fading from gold to ash.
“Apollo?” she whispered, turning— but he was gone.
The light collapsed inward. The heat vanished so fast it stole her breath. Cold rushed in where warmth had lived, sharp as judgment.
In his place stood a woman made of fire. Tall. Regal. Crown of burning gold atop her head. A queen carved from judgment.
Ash fell from her like snow, drifting slowly and soundlessly through the dreamscape, hissing where it touched the ground. Her skin cracked like smouldering stone, fissures glowing white-hot beneath. Her eyes—flames trapped in sockets—stared not at Adelaide, but through her, as if peering at something behind her ribs. The weight of that gaze pinned her in place, as though invisible hands had sunk into her chest and spread her open for inspection.
When she spoke, her voice was as powerful as that of a dying star collapsing. Heavy, grieving, inevitable. Each word vibrated through the dreamscape and through Adelaide’s bones, as if it had travelled a very long way to reach her.
“Daughter of Fire. Child of ash and heartbeat… he is not what holds you. He is what devours you.”
Adelaide stumbled back in the dreamscape, heart pounding. The ground beneath her feet cracked, seams of molten light opening like wounds in the dark stone. Her hands flew out for balance, only to meet heat-thick air.
The Old Queen stepped closer, flames licking her torn gown. The fire did not burn—it pressed. Like divine weight. Like the presence of something worshipped too long and too late.
When she raised a hand, embers spiralled from her palm like smoke-born prophecies. They curled through the air, forming shapes that almost looked like cities collapsing, seas boiling, a crown tumbling from a burning throne.
The fall of kings. The end of empires.
“Beware the tender mouth of the beast,” she said, voice trembling with ancient warning.
“For even a gentle flame consumes. Even a loving fire leaves you hollowed.”
“What—” Adelaide choked. “What do you mean? What are you—” Her own voice sounded small against the cosmic drag of the Queen’s words, a mortal question thrown at something that felt as old as the first spark.
“He will tear the world to keep you,” the Queen whispered. “And you will burn with him, willing or not.”
The heat surged—too bright, too much.
The Queen’s form wavered, flickered from within the flame— then she lunged toward her. Her hands, all flame and fractured stone, were reaching straight for Adelaide’s chest. For her heart.
And Adelaide screamed—
—and jolted awake.