Page 18 of Lustling

I press a palm against my sternum, willing my heartbeat to slow, but it’s no use. The ache hasn’t gone away. It’s settled deeper, a second pulse between my thighs, hot and insistent. Sleep won’t come. Guilt won’t come. I should be sobbing. Praying. Repenting. Instead I’m still wet, still trembling, still wanting.

I pull the blanket tighter around myself, curling small. My mind conjures images I’ve been taught all my life should bring shame or comfort—Jesus on the cross, angels with flaming swords, hellfire—but nothing reaches me. There’s no fear. No solace. Only the echo of his voice, smooth and dark, threading through my head:

Touch yourself.

I flinch. He shouldn’t still be there, but he is. And worse—I want him there.

My fingers twitch against my stomach. Almost. Almost lower. The blanket suddenly feels wrong—too heavy, too warm. I kick it off, desperate for air. And that’s when I see it.

My reflection.

The mirror across the room catches a sliver of light from Penny’s phone screen, just enough to show me sitting there, flushed and trembling, legs bare beneath the hem of my skirt. But it’s not just me.

For a split second—there. Horns. Black, curling elegantly back from my temples like a crown of sin.

I jerk back, heart crashing against my ribs. My breath comes in shallow bursts. Gone. Just a trick of the light. Right?

I stare longer than I should, trying to make sense of my own face. My eyes look darker tonight. Deeper.

I turn away too fast, too hard, trying to breathe. Penny mumbles something under her breath and turns over, her phone’s glow flickering against the wall. I close my eyes and will myself to sleep?—

‘Mine.’

I jolt upright. The voice slithers through the dark—familiar, ancient. Not Deimos. Older.

‘Soon, you’ll beg for it.’

I sit up fast, scanning the room. No one’s there. But I feel it: a weight in the air, a tension crawling along my spine. My heart pounds harder.

Blink.

Suddenly I’m standing.

Staring at Penny.

She’s asleep, facing the wall, the soft glow of her phone screen casting strange shadows across her blanket. But I’m across the room. I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember walking. I don’t remember moving at all.

My hand is reaching out. Fingers twitching like I’m about to touch her. Or hurt her.

I yank back as if burned. My pulse crashes in my ears. I stumble backward, nearly tripping over my desk as I flee back to my bed. Curl up. Breathe. Don’t think.

You’re losing it.

‘No, little one,’ the voice whispers again. ‘You’re becoming.’

My hands clamp over my ears, but there’s no sound. Not really. Just the taste of smoke curling at the back of my throat.

I close my eyes?—

And dream.

The sheets are like silk against my back, cool and smooth, but I’m burning. Deimos looms above me, bare-chested, inked forearms braced on either side of my head as he moves inside me—slow, deep, relentless. I can’t speak. Can’t think. Only feel. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wide, keeping me open. His mouth finds my throat, tongue dragging along my pulse before he bites down—hard.

“Mine,” he growls.

I arch into him, nails digging into his shoulders. Pleasure crashes through me, thick and hot. His pace builds, my body unravels, I’m seconds from release?—

Then.