Lustborn

The aftermath lingered like smoke—soft, invasive, impossible to wave away. The air in the temple had thickened. Even when the others spoke or moved around her, their voices seemed far away, muffled, as if she were underwater. But it wasn't the silence that haunted her. It was the feeling—the way his breath had touched her neck when the demon slipped inside him… and how willingly she had leaned into it.

She hadn't even asked for his name.

Now she sat on the edge of her stone cot, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them like a fortress that could keep the heat at bay. But it wasn't working. The warmth had sunk too deep.

She felt marked.

There was a knowing between her thighs, a throbbing awareness that pulsed not just from her body but from something beneath it—something older. Hungrier.

She pressed her palm against her sternum and closed her eyes. She didn't want to crave this. She hadn't asked for it. But her body betrayed her. It remembered. His touch. His need. Her own moan stifled against his lips.

The worst part? She didn't even know if it was really him… or just the demon using his flesh to get to her.

When the door creaked, she didn't turn. She already knew who it was.

"Ayla."

His voice cracked like a whisper over flame. Careful. Tense.

She didn't answer.

He stepped into the room and paused just behind her. She could feel him—so close, the heat of him licking against her spine. There was still sweat in his breath, something raw in his scent. It pulled at her lower belly like a magnet.

"I didn't mean to…" he started, but stopped himself. "I wasn't in control."

She looked over her shoulder slowly. "And now?"

He flinched, then dropped his gaze. "Now… I don't know."

Silence hung between them, full of memory and guilt and something too twisted to name.

"I felt you," she whispered. "You weren't gone."

He looked up. Their eyes locked.

"It was me… and not me." He stepped closer, his voice low, trembling. "It wanted you. I wanted you. And when it broke through…" He looked ashamed, like a boy confessing a terrible dream. "I didn't want to stop."

Ayla stood, bare feet touching the cold stone. The space between them was breathless, full of the moment before. She wanted to strike him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to run and never come back.

But instead, she asked, "Do you still feel it?"

He nodded.

"So do I."

He reached for her, slowly, like she might shatter. She didn't move away. When his fingers touched her cheek, they lingered—no demon behind them, no lust-drunk fog. Just warmth.

Just him.

"I want to understand what this is," he said. "You… me… this thing inside us."

Her throat felt dry. "They said no one is born of lust. That it was a myth."

"Then maybe you're the myth made real."

A pause. Her body shivered. He wasn't trying to seduce her—but his words did.

"I think I need to leave," she said finally.

His face fell. "Where would you go?"

"Somewhere I can't infect anyone."

He grabbed her hand. "You're not a plague, Ayla. You're a fire. They're just afraid to burn."

Her breath caught.

She didn't know who she was anymore. Not entirely. But maybe… just maybe… she was ready to find out.

And maybe she wouldn't do it alone.