I have been driving for what seems like years, street lights switching on with the sinking of the sun and the increased darkness around me.

I can still feel the caked dryness of past tears on my cheeks, to absorbed in the yellow lines running next to me as I drive.

It's near now, the destination so clear in my mind yet so foggy, that I might have been imagining it, and I maybe headed in north, south, east, west, or even in no direction at all. This doesn't feel real, the sound of Xander's soft snoring and the whoosh of the wind running along the side of the car could all be part of some vivid dream. Or even a nightmare.

As soon as Octavius mind-linked me I blocked the connection. I didn't trust myself not to veer off the road if he startled me again.

I take a turn off the main highway, entering a paved road that is hidden in the trees and brush. I can practically smell the scent of my destination.

Just a few more feet...

And I brake.

The engine cuts off with a soft hum, the lights inside the car dimming until everything around me is black. I slouch in the seat, exhaling a deep breath that comes out visible in front of my slightly red nose.

Just breath, Alessandra. I whisper to myself.

Unclipping my seatbelt, I step out of the car, the sound of crunching leaves and snow under my weight, and I shiver slightly in the dawn air. I open the back door, gazing down at the sleeping face of my son. Xander is cooing slightly, a frown on his tiny brow.

I unclip him from the baby-seat, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head and holding him to my chest.

And then I turn finally to look at the building in front of me.

My old home.

I can't will myself to take a step forward, not yet. The white marble pillars are still intact on top of the dust covered stairs, leading to the hole where the grand door to the foyer once led.

I can still remember Kane's face as he burst through the door, knocking it off its hinges and knocking me off of my axis.

Everything is still and preserved, and completely terrifying.

I move forward, quietly climbing the slightly rickety steps to the front hall. I feel an eery chill run down my spine. I feel as if I am stepping back in time, to a whole different world.

As if on instinct, I turn to the side stairs, which spiral through all five floors of the mansion. I climb cautiously, wary of the abandoned houses questionable sturdiness.

I stop at the fifth floor, nervously putting one foot in front of the other as if one small step could make everything around me collapse in a pile of ash and bone.

I push open the white door to my room, hesitating slightly.

What if I open this door, and find that all of this was just some wonderfully terrifying dream?

My foot sneaks past the doorway, and I push into a past that may not even be real.

It is just as I left it. The pale pale pale purple walls with their bright white trim are now fading to a chipped grey, and the window is cracked slightly, probably from some frightened bird slamming into the glass panel. Books and stories line the large antique bookshelf in the corner, and I skim my fingers over the hovering soot coating their blue and black bindings. I can still remember my mother's silky voice rising and falling as she acted out the stories she would read to me at night. Tales of princesses and princes and slain beasts, where there was always, without a single doubt, a happy ending.

And now I can see the first and only time my mother ever told me a lie. I think, retracting my fingers slowly from the books, as if their closeness could burn with me sadness.

As I continue to scan my room, I spot the little black drawstring notebook on my desk, underneath a layer of crackling pencils and pens. I pick it up, coughing slightly at the cloud that rises from it, and then I sit on the floor, Xander still in my grasp, and I open my old sketchpad.

Mother always said I had a talent for wordless storytelling, the way I allowed ink to trace on parchment like a ceremonial dance.

I flip through pages of faces and trees, everything seeming so simply unsubstantial, but then I stop and stare at the paper.

What have I done?

Scrawled with a deep black pen, is Octavius. It isn't his face, just his silhouette, a strong alpha male lifting his mate into the air, and you can almost hear their laughter, feel the warmth of their love soaking everything around them with a deep ache and envy. I trace my finger over the browning paper, sweeping across the lines of his body, and for a moment, I'm not in my old home.

I am sitting by a fire, wrapped in him, his arms tangled around me in an unbreakable knot, his lips brushing my hair, his thumb lightly stroking my cheek. And his voice at my ear, whispering everything and nothing at once, and even if I was deaf, I would be able to feel his words, and the honesty and the compassion embedded in them. And then I look down and see my little baby boy, his lashes crossed over his cheekbones. So beautiful. So surrounded by love.

I let out an audible sigh, and I open my eyes, and frown.

My family portrait has disappeared, and I am back in my old room, the ice-cold wind creeping through the fabric of my jacket, and I feel as if my heart has been ripped out of my chest. I stand up quickly, my head spinning with realization.

I'm so stupid, what the hell am I doing here, where is Octavius, why am I here, I want to go home.

I am frantic as I stuff my sketchbook under my jacket, and I hold Xander tighter to my chest as I race down the stairs, flying down them with the speed of a bird, my heart racing at a mile a second.

I need to get back to Octavius.

I can't lose him.

I need to know he's real.

I quickly strap Xander into his car seat, speedily slipping into my driver's seat and forcing the keys into the ignition. My mind is so muddled and frazzled that I can barely see straight. I pull back out of the trees and onto the highway, the smell of burning rubber and the screech of my tires cutting through the night.

But the sound of my tires draws a squeak from Xander, and before I can pray he won't, he starts to cry.

"No, it's okay baby, we're going to be home soon." I comfort desperately, my eyes switching from the road to my son in the backseat.

But he won't stop crying, his face turning redder by the second.

I give a quick glance to the road, and seeing no one, I turn my head back to him.

"This little blue bird-" I begin to sing, ignoring the road.

But I don't get to begin the second line in the song when bright lights appear in front of me, and I don't even have time to scream before the world goes dark.