Married To The Mad Vampire Lord-Chapter 233: Nightmare_The Death Date_Part 3

She touched her hands to her body and realized she was nothing like herself, and her pregnant belly was gone. Bringing her hands to her face, she finally let out a scream as she felt the same strange texture on her skin as on her hands. She had no hair on her head, and if her scream of terror was heard by the people around her, they gave no sign. None of them turned from their sorrowful weeping to look at her.

They couldn’t see her. She was an invisible bystander!

Fear, panic, and confusion consumed her all at once, making her shake her head and tremble all over. With the cries of the mourners growing louder around her, she turned slowly toward the direction of the grave that had just been freshly cemented. freewebnøvel_com

This had to be some kind of terrible dream—but it felt too real to be false. She could feel things, see things, just as if it were truly happening. Her feet moved on their own as she walked toward the grave, her eyes drawn to the tombstone that stood stark and new, the name carved onto it painfully clear.

Isabelle Dawson, born 1670, died in 1688.

She sucked in a sharp breath and stumbled back from the grave, disbelief flooding her wide eyes. How could this be possible? The dead person buried here had the same name, and surname, as her!

What was going on? Her thoughts spun in panic as she tried to understand what this meant. That couldn’t be her, she hadn’t been born in that year. So who were these people? And why was she here, back in time, in 1688?!

She looked around at the faces of the people grieving; there was not a face she recognized, but one woman in particular looked familiar and stood out from the rest. However, before she could move towards this woman, something touched her shoulder, and she jolted. Just like that, everything turned blank for a moment until she heard,

"Sweetheart?" The voice came with a gentle pat on her shoulder, and she slowly opened her eyes to the looming face of her husband. She blinked once, then twice, before sitting up quickly on the couch, looking around and realizing she was back in the chamber where the canvases were. Rohan was sitting half on the edge of the couch, looking down at her with concern darkening his eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asked, noticing the beads of sweat on her forehead and how frantically her heart was pounding. "Did you have a nightmare?" he questioned gently, moving his hand to her flushed cheeks and brushing away a few strands of stray hair, tucking them behind her ear as he watched her closely—patiently waiting for her to calm down enough to speak.

He wouldn’t have disturbed her sleep if he hadn’t sensed something was wrong. Her breathing had been off, and her heartbeat had been pounding so hard he could hear it even from outside the door.

At last, she calmed enough to meet his gaze. "I don’t know... it felt real, and yet when I woke up, it felt like a dream," she muttered, her voice small and her eyes filled with fear.

Rohan moved closer and gently helped her sit up properly on the couch. "What is the dream about? Tell me," he coaxed, wanting to calm her heart and the fear he saw in those large hazels.

She looked down at her hands, turning them from back to front and side by side, and then she sighed in great relief. "I wasn’t myself in the dream. My hands looked like burned twigs and dried... and I saw people mourning around a grave..." She shuddered, remembering the name that was carved on it, and then she looked up at Rohan when he gave her shoulders a gentle, encouraging squeeze to continue speaking.

"I... the name on the tombstone was the same as mine... Isabelle Dawson was written on it... What does such a nightmare mean?" she asked him, looking up at him for confirmation that what she had just experienced was not real. It couldn’t have been, as it wasn’t the land of the dead.

Rohan was stunned by her words, but seeing how uneasy she was and how she was looking at him like that, wanting reassurance, he remained calm and asked, "What else did you notice? What year was this Isabelle Dawson?"

Belle frowned and tried to remember the date carved on the stone. "She was born 1670 and died 1688," she said, turning to clutch at his shirt like she was afraid of what this meant.

"And when were you born, my darling?" he questioned with that calm voice, stroking his large hand down her spine in comfort.

"I... I was born in 1735," she muttered, then her eyes rounded and she said with great relief, "It’s impossible for that to be me. My date of birth is different."

"So you see, it’s just a bad dream," he assured her gently, relieved to feel her fear going away. He did not believe the words of assurance he gave her, though, as if this had nothing to do with her, she wouldn’t have dreamed it to begin with. Many things happened with reasons. Unless it was just a normal nightmare and not something she truly experienced, he did not think it was normal.

She had said something about her hands looking dried like twigs—just like he had once noticed her skin changing before his eyes that day, only to quickly turn back to normal as if nothing had happened. What could this mean?

It seemed he truly needed to see the Dawsons himself and find out things that might give him answers to a few more questions about his wife. However, he couldn’t just show up at the Dawsons’ home without a reason. Despite being their so-called in-law, it didn’t mean he would be welcome in Aragonia.

Not wanting to get her restless in this state, he schooled his own expression into a calm one and stood up to pour her water from the jug he had brought back with him.

He handed her the cup of water and she drank it deeply, like she had been thirsty. She gave him back the cup with a muttered thank you and then leaned her back against the couch.

"Sorry I fell asleep," she apologized, to have him turn to her with a smile after dropping the cup.

"It’s nothing. I expected you to take a short nap when I was away, and I am glad you did," he told her as he unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt sleeves and then rolled up the sleeves. Lastly, he kicked off his boots and walked back towards her barefoot, helping her up from the couch as she attempted to stand.

"Are you going to start the painting?" she asked when she felt his arm wrap around her waist.

"Hmm," he hummed softly, looking down at the blush that rose up to her cheeks, and she turned her head to the side as if to hide her shyness.

Turning her head, Belle’s eyes fell on that canvas she had stared at before going to sleep, and then her curiosity piqued and she asked while leaning her head to his chest, "Where did you get the inspiration to make that painting?"

Rohan turned his head to the canvas she was pointing at and the smile on his face slightly wavered, as he knew she must have seen what he painted there. He was silent for a moment before he replied, "I don’t remember. I just woke up one morning with the image in my mind, thus I painted it."

"Did you perhaps dream it?" she asked, tilting her head back to look up at him. An image of a shadow figure with long, curved horns on his head, a shadow like the devil himself standing at one’s doorway.

"I do not dream," he mused tonelessly. "I don’t remember a time I dreamt or had nightmares." He did not know how he had painted the image, but he had, and it wasn’t something of importance. Thus, he turned his attention back to his wife to get back to their original topic about the painting.

"I will undress you now, my love," he announced to let her know, his hand already going to her dress lace at the back.

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