Frowning, I focused on him. “So I could imagine Ivy standing there instead?” I said, thinking of her, and Trent chuckled, licking the last of the sweetness from his fingers.

“No. Trent is trying to reach you. That’s why I’m here. Bits of him are getting through, just not enough.”

But I already knew that, seeing as he was simply a part of my subconscious, voicing what I was figuring out the instant I was realizing it. It was a weird way to have a conversation.

Trent slid from the table and came around to me. His hands were outstretched, and I backed up when he got too close. “What the hell are you doing?” I said, giving him a shove, and Trent rocked back, his arms dropping.

“Trying to kiss you,” he said.

“Why?” I said, peeved. God, dreams were weird.

“Trent is trying to get your soul back in your body,” Trent said, looking mildly embarrassed. “He can’t do it unless you agree.”

Oh yeah. Elven magic. It worked by persuasion and trickery. Sounded about right. “And a kiss is the only way to show agreement?” I mocked, putting the center counter between us. The floor had shown up, looking faded and scratched. My soul was starting to put things together. “Hey, how long have I been in here?” I asked, and Trent shrugged. Apparently my subconscious didn’t know.

Looking unconcerned, Trent picked up the cookie cutter. “You want to leave, right?”

I eyed him standing in my kitchen, and I wondered if he really looked that good or if my subconscious was adding to his sex appeal. “Yes,” I said, coming closer.

He handed me the spatula. “We have to work together.”

I figured he meant more than making cookies, but I slid the spatula under the cut dough and moved it to the tray. “I want to leave. Isn’t that enough?”

A second cookie joined the first, and my eyebrows rose. The first one hadn’t vanished this time. “Now you’re getting it,” Trent said, then seemed to shudder. “You’ve been in here three days,” he said, his visage losing its clean, pressed look and becoming haggard. His hand working the cookie cutter was swollen, and he was missing two digits on his right hand, a very white bandage hiding the damage. I hadn’t imagined him looking like that. It was something outside—impinging on me.

“Trent?” I said, backing up in alarm, and his posture slumped. His eyes were red rimmed and tired, and his hair was limp and straggly. He was still wearing his black slacks and black shirt, but they were wrinkled, as if he’d been wearing them for days.

“Yes,” he said, his gaze rising to the ceiling. “It’s me.”

I didn’t think I was talking to my subconscious anymore, and I set the spatula down, my alarm turned into fear. “What’s happening?”

His eyes landed on me, and I clasped my arms around my middle. “I’m trying to get you out, but I’ve run into an unexpected snag.”