"You feel it."
Its voice is threaded with something darkly pleased. It does not ask. Itknows.
I swallow. My throat feels exposed, tender, as if it has already been claimed by the sound of It.
"Your scent," It continues, closer now. "It is changing."
The words sink into me, coil around my spine, settling somewhere deep beneath thought. They leave me feeling exposed, unbearably so, every inch of me awaking.
"You are beginning to call."
My eyes close, body leaning toward the sound of it, toward the promise folded into Its nearness. My chin rises on its own; my lips part on a breath I do not remember choosing, the night rushing in to meet me. For a heartbeat, I am nothing but sensation: water at my waist, moon on my skin, the space waiting between us.
Then the warmth vanishes. The pressure lifts. The air exhales where he stood.
My eyes open.
The lake lies still around me, dark and silent once more. The mist drifts, indifferent. The shadows at the treeline do not stir anymore.
It is gone.
In Its place, a bouquet lies upon a flat stone where the water meets the shore.
White petals gleam as though lit from within, their blossoms wide, almost translucent. The slender stems are bound with quiet care, as though gathered in secret.
Their sweet, heady scent rises to me, threaded in something wild and unfamiliar.
Silene noctiflora.Floarea-Nop?ii.
The flower that opens only when no one watches.
II – The Flesh
Chapter One
I wake with a gasp.
My body jerks upright, breath tearing out of me in short, frantic pulls. My heart hammers so hard it hurts, a wild, panicked rhythm that refuses to slow. For a moment I don’t know where I am—only that something has been taken from me, or given, almost.
Light floods my vision then. Sunlight spills through the gaps in the roof, dust motes drifting lazily in its wake. Morning. Birds somewhere beyond the walls, the ordinary sounds of day settling into place.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady myself, feeling the warmth of my skin, the heaviness of my limbs. Real.
A dream—it had to be.
Still, my mouth is dry. My throat aches faintly, as if having breathed cold air too long. My mind scrambles, grasping for shape, for reason. Pale hands. The brush of fingers along my lips. That voice, low and warm, the way my body—
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head firmly, willing it to scatter the images loose, my hand lifting to my face—
—only to freeze.
My hair clings to my fingers in darkened, heavy strands. Cold seeps into my skin where it rests against the base of my neck. I tug a lock forward and stare at it.
Undeniably wet.
No.
My pulse spikes, dizzying, as I throw the covers back and stare down at myself.
