Lustborn

I didn't sleep.

Not in the way sleep should happen—soft, slow, forgotten.

It came in bursts, flashes of skin and shadow. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his breath against the nape of my neck, the whisper of my name in a voice only I could hear. And when I turned on the bed, tangled in sheets soaked with heat, I wasn't sure if I was chasing the memory of him or running from it.

I was becoming something else.

The scent of myself lingered in the air—musk, sweat, that hidden sweetness I never noticed until he summoned it from me. My thighs ached from how tightly they pressed together through the night, every brush of fabric waking a need I didn't know how to tame.

I couldn't blame it on a dream anymore.

Not when the bruises stayed.

Not when the mirror caught his mark on my collarbone—a deep red bloom, the kind no sleep could invent.

---

I left the house early.

The city was loud. The world tried to be normal. But I wasn't.

My lips still tasted like him—salt, smoke, and something deeper, like power. Like fire from a furnace I didn't know I carried inside. I wore black. No makeup. I didn't want to be seen. And yet, I wanted to be watched. Touched. Taken.

I hated that.

The streets blurred around me. Every man I passed looked at me too long. I didn't know if I was imagining it… or projecting something out of me. Something he left behind.

Was this what being Lustborn meant?

---

The temple summoned me again.

This time, I didn't hesitate. I knew where to go. My body moved before my thoughts caught up.

The doors of the temple were already open.

Inside, everything was still. The heat was thick, like a humid confession.

Priestesses in silver robes walked past me, their eyes lingering. Some in curiosity. Others in fear. But most… in recognition.

I was no longer the same girl who trembled during the Ember Rite. Something was blooming inside me—and they could feel it.

The Matron waited alone, lit by a single red candle.

She didn't speak at first. She just stared at me.

Then softly, she said:

"You've been touched."

I didn't answer.

Her voice grew colder. "He's not meant to cross the veil so soon."

"What is he?" I asked. It came out more desperate than I wanted. "Why does he want me?"

"He doesn't want you," she said. "He knows you. He's tasted you before this life."

Her words cracked something open in me.

I wanted to scream. Or run.

But all I could do was whisper:

"Why me?"

She studied me like a surgeon does a wound.

"Because you're not human anymore. You've never been. You're Lustborn."

---

That night, I didn't lock the door.

I didn't know if I wanted him to come or if I was afraid he wouldn't.

But he didn't need permission.

I was brushing my hair when I saw the mirror ripple.

No breeze. No warning. Just the reflection behind me... moving.

He was there.

Not in the flesh. Not fully.

But his presence—oh, God, his presence—it filled the room like incense, clinging to the walls, the sheets, my lungs.

"Say my name," he whispered.

I closed my eyes. My fingers trembled around the brush. "I don't know it."

"You will."

The mirror fogged up.

I stepped closer. The air was wet, heavy with invisible fingers. I pressed my palm to the glass—and felt heat pulse against it. Like he was on the other side, skin against skin.

He chuckled low, dark. "You ache."

I swallowed.

"I hate you," I said.

"No," he replied. "You hate that you need me."

My knees weakened. My chest rose too fast. I felt dizzy with truth.

"I want to stop this," I lied.

He didn't believe me.

Neither did I.

---

My dreams that night weren't dreams.

I felt him crawl into bed behind me, not through doors, not through logic—but through hunger. Through the hollows inside me.

His breath was at my ear. His fingers ghosted down my spine.

"Every part of you," he murmured, "remembers me."

My body shuddered.

I couldn't scream. I didn't want to.

The sheets tangled around us, fabric and flesh indistinguishable. He was behind me, inside me, around me—and yet, I couldn't see him. Just felt him.

The room pulsed red.

I cried into the pillow, not from pain, not from fear—but from the terrifying pleasure of losing control. Of wanting to be consumed.

He didn't ask.

He took.

And I gave.

Not just my body.

But something deeper.

When I woke, my mouth was open—dry, gasping—and my thighs were wet.

The mark on my collarbone had bloomed.

It pulsed like a heartbeat.

---

I didn't go to work. I couldn't face people.

The world outside felt too slow, too unreal.

I stayed home, walking from mirror to mirror.

His voice followed me.

"You don't belong to their world."

"I don't want to belong to yours," I said.

He laughed softly. "You already do."

---

That night, the mirror cracked.

Not shattered.

Just enough to split my reflection in two.

Two faces.

One afraid.

One aroused.

One of them was me.

The other… was what I was becoming.