Lullaby (The Fable Series, Book 2)

Chapter Eight

My sleep is anything but peaceful.

Half awake, I toss and turn for hours, stuck in the delirium between dreams and reality. At one stage I think I hear footsteps next to my bed, but I can't move, can't open my eyes.

I feel the duvet gently lifted away, and cool lips touching the bruise on my chest. I slip deeper under the tides of sleep, and for a while I'm wandering in a cool green forest, with fir trees as tall as towers, and distant silver birds high up in the branches. They call down to me, and I will my arms to turn into wings so that I can fly up and join them.

Just as the first snowy white feathers break the surface of my skin, a whisper pulls me from my dreams.

"Wake up, Cupcake."

I open my eyes to find Alastaire sitting on the end of my bed, his face illuminated by the pale light of the crescent flooding in through the window. I can see stars outside – it must still be the middle of the night.

"Dreaming about me, I hope?" He asks, winking at me with a mischievous smile. He's wearing dark joggers and a white tank top, showing off his beautifully toned arms. His tousled blonde hair shines silver in the moonlight, and I feel my breath hitch in my throat.

I pull the duvet up higher, remembering that I got into bed without my clothes.

Clearly it's a terrible idea crawling into bed naked in a house filled with teenaged boys. Why do I do these things to myself?

"How did you get in here?" I ask.

"Through the chimney," he says.

"What?" I ask, trying to picture Alastaire crawling out of the fireplace.

"I'm joking, of course," he says. "The door was wide open. Anyway, get dressed. There's something I need to show you."

"What is it?" I ask.

"That's a surprise," he says.

I could tell him I'm too tired and I just want to sleep, but honestly, he's piqued my curiosity. And it's not like I'm likely to get much sleep tonight anyway.

"Ok," I say. "But you have to leave the room while I get dressed."

"You'd make me stand outside in the cold dark corridor?" He says, giving me his best puppy dog eyes. "Why do you hate me so much?"

"I'm not getting dressed in front of you," I say.

"I'll close my eyes," he says, lying back on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. He theatrically waves his hands through the air before holding them over his eyes.

"I can't see a thing," he says. "Now hurry up. We don't have much time."

I don't trust Alastaire not to peek. Because I'm not an idiot.

Alastaire's lying on the duvet across the foot of the bed, so I can't wrap that around myself. I consider making a dash in the nude over to the wardrobe, or telling him again to go wait outside, before I remember that there's a pair of pajamas under my pillow.

When I was a kid, my mom would always leave my pajamas folded neatly under my pillow after she did laundry. I liked the convenience of it, and now it's become a sort of habit of mine.

I slip my hands under the pillow and pull out a pair of lacy white shorts with a white silk bow and a matching cami.

Now for the tricky part.

I burrow down under the duvet, slipping on the shorts first, then the top.

"What's all the squirming around under the covers for?" Alastaire asks, propping himself up on his side at the end of the bed. "I thought you were getting dressed."