When she awoke that morning, in her bed, she wasn’t sure the chapel had even been real.
The memory of it clung to her like the fog outside—heavy, damp, impossible to shake. Her body ached not with pain but with absence. The places he had touched in her dreams felt hollow now, abandoned. Beneath her collarbone, the faint spiral mark pulsed with a warmth that felt like a heartbeat not her own.
She traced it with trembling fingers.
“Was any of it real?” she whispered to the empty room.
All of it. And more to come.
The voice wasn’t a sound. It was a feeling, a vibration in her bones. Rowan sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest, eyes searching the corners of her bedroom.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice stronger than she felt.
No answer came. Just the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.
Downstairs, the kettle screamed as she poured hot water over a teabag. Her reflection in the kitchen window startled her—eyes too bright, lips too full, a woman transformed by something that hadn’t fully happened yet.
She sipped her tea and stared at the ocean. The fog was beginning to lift, revealing the sharp outline of the cliffs. Something stirred in her chest—an ache, a pull, like gravity shifted only for her.
“Show yourself,” she whispered.
The air around her stirred. Not a breeze, but a presence.
Not yet. You’re not ready.
“I’m not afraid,” she lied.
You should be.
The spiral beneath her collarbone burned, and with it came a flash—not a memory, but a vision: a vast ocean, not Earth’s familiar blue but a deep violet, beneath three moons hanging like jewels in an emerald sky. She felt herself floating above it, then plunging beneath the surface where massive shapes moved in the depths, beautiful and terrible.
She gasped, dropping her mug. It shattered on the floor, tea spreading like blood across the tiles.
Her knees buckled. She gripped the counter. Her stomach churned—salt, heat, something deeper. Something moving beneath her skin. For a moment, she thought she might vomit. But the feeling passed into something worse—a longing so intense it felt like starvation.
The vision vanished, leaving her trembling, still gripping the edge of the counter.
It had lasted only seconds. But she could still taste the alien salt on her tongue.
The historian called that afternoon.
She had almost forgotten giving him her number during that awkward conversation at the archive. He sounded casual. Curious. Harmless.
“I found something you might want to see,” he said. “About your family.”
She hesitated. “What kind of something?”
“A pattern,” he said. “One that goes back generations.”
Part of her wanted to hang up. To barricade the doors. To protect whatever was happening to her from outside interference.
Let him show you. Knowledge is a gift I would give you too.
There it was again—that voice in her mind, smooth as silk.
“Where and when?” she asked, surprising herself.
They met at the town library, in a back corner lined with leather-bound books and dust-covered town records. He wore a plaid shirt and had a shy smile, like he didn’t quite know what to make of her.
“This,” he said, laying out a series of yellowed documents, “is your great-grandmother Delilah’s name.”
Rowan stared. “Marriage license?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Incident report. Vanishing. 1937. No body. No witnesses. She walked into the sea, they say. Pregnant.”
She flinched. “That’s not what my mother told me.”
He shrugged. “There’s more. Martha Dane. 1889. Margaret Dane. 1851. All women. All gone. All—” he tapped a line in the margins— “described as unstable. Claimed dreams. Visions. Spoke of a man from the water. A god. A lover.”
Rowan’s mouth went dry.
“This has been happening,” he said softly, “since the first settlers. Always to a Dane woman. Always by the cliffs.”
She stared at the pages. Spiral patterns. Sketches of dark shapes. A woman drawn in charcoal, arms spread like wings, eyes wide in ecstasy or terror.
She felt the spiral burn beneath her skin.
“I don’t think you should be staying in that house alone,” he said gently.
She looked up at him. So earnest. So concerned.
And all she could think was how dull his eyes were. How flat his voice sounded. How limited his understanding of the world must be.
They never saw you. I see everything.
The thought wasn’t hers. But it felt right.
“Thank you,” she said, standing abruptly. “I need to go.”
“Rowan, please—”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, not unkindly. “This is… family history. I should process it alone.”
Outside, she breathed deeply, feeling strangely lighter. The historian knew facts, but he didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand.
She should’ve felt bad for brushing him off. But she didn’t. Not anymore.
No one could.
That night, she didn’t try to sleep.
She sat on her bed in the darkness, waiting. The open window let in the salt breeze, making the curtains dance like ghosts.
“I know you’re there,” she said softly.
No answer.
“I saw the records. I know what they think you are. What you want.”
Still nothing.
Frustration flared in her chest. “Show yourself!”
The breeze died. The house fell utterly silent, as if it too were holding its breath.
What I want? The voice curled inside her mind, amused. What do you want, Rowan Dane?
She opened her mouth to answer but found no words.
Tell me your desires. Tell me what keeps you awake at night. Tell me what you’ve never told anyone.
“I want…” she began, then stopped. The truth unfolded in her mind like a flower: “I want to be seen. Really seen. Not the person everyone thinks I am, but who I really am.”
And if that person is terrible?
“Then see that too.”
The air shimmered before her. A figure formed—not fully material, but more than shadow. A man’s shape, tall and powerful, with eyes that glowed like distant stars.
“Everyone wears a mask,” he said, and his voice was richer now, resonating in the room and in her chest at once. “Everyone hides. Even from themselves. But I see beneath all masks. I always have.”
He moved closer, and with each step became more solid. More real.
“Your ancestors knew me,” he said. “Some feared. Some worshipped. Some loved.”
“And what happened to them?” she asked, her breath catching.
“They became more than human.” His eyes softened. “But only those who chose me freely. That is the ancient law.”
He extended his hand, stopping just short of touching her face.
“I cannot take, Rowan Dane. I can only offer. Only you can invite me in.”
Her heart raced. The sensible part of her mind screamed warnings—about the vanished women, about the sea, about things that were not human pretending to be.
But another part, a deeper part, recognized him. As if she’d been waiting all her life.
“Show me,” she whispered. “Let me see what they saw.”
His smile was beautiful and terrible. “Once seen, it cannot be unseen.”
“Show me anyway.”
He touched her then—just his fingertips against her temple. But it was enough.
The world exploded.
She was no longer in her bedroom. She was nowhere—and everywhere.
Stars burst around her, cosmic fires in impossible colors. She watched nebulae birth and die, witnessed civilizations rise and fall like waves on a cosmic shore. She saw beings of light and shadow, dancing between dimensions. She saw the birth of her world, the ancient oceans where he had first awakened. She saw women with her face, her blood, reaching for him across centuries.
And throughout it all, he held her, his mind wrapped protectively around hers.
This is what they never let you see. This is the truth beneath the mask of reality.
She felt herself falling, drowning in sensation, in knowledge too vast for her human mind to hold.
“Too much,” she gasped. “It’s too much.”
Instantly, she was back in her bedroom, collapsing forward into his now-solid arms. He held her as she shook, stroking her hair as if she were a frightened child.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “The first time is always overwhelming.”
Overwhelming didn’t begin to describe it. Her entire understanding of reality had shattered. She clung to him, this impossible being who felt like the only solid thing in an unraveling universe.
“What are you?” she whispered against his chest.
“I have been called many things. God. Monster. Guardian. Destroyer.” His fingers traced the spiral beneath her collarbone. “To you, I can be whatever you need.”
“And what do I need?” She pulled back to look at his face.
His eyes softened. “To be remade.”
The words thrilled her. They also terrified her. She didn’t ask what he meant by “remade.”
His mouth found hers then, a kiss that burned like ice and fire together. His lips were soft but insistent, offering rather than taking, yet each gentle press sent shockwaves through her body. The spiral mark burned pleasantly, pulsing in time with her racing heart.
This wasn’t like her dreams. This was real. Tangible. Undeniable.
His hands cupped her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks. So tender, yet she felt the restrained power in his touch. He could break her—but he wouldn’t. Not unless she asked.
“Your ancestors gave themselves to me,” he murmured against her lips. “Some for power. Some for knowledge. Some for love.”
“And what do you want from me?” she asked, breathless.
“Everything.” His eyes glowed brighter. “But only if freely given.”
Her body thrummed with want, with need. His proximity was intoxicating, like standing at the edge of a cliff in a storm—terrifying and exhilarating at once.
“Tonight?” she asked.
His smile held secrets. “Not yet. You’re not ready.”
Frustration flared hot in her blood. “I am.”
“No.” He brushed his lips against her forehead. “When you’re ready, you’ll know. And so will I.”
He guided her back until she was lying on the bed. He stretched out beside her, pulling her against his chest. His presence was warm yet otherworldly, and somehow she sensed it was just one form among many he could take.
“Sleep,” he whispered. “Dream with me.”
“Of what?” She was already drifting, exhaustion from the visions claiming her.
“Of the wonders I’ll show you. Of the woman you’ll become.”
As she fell into darkness, she felt his lips brush the spiral mark. It flared with heat, then spread—tendrils of sensation unfurling across her skin. Not painful. Transformative.
“Will I ever be normal again?” she murmured, half-asleep.
His laugh was soft against her hair.
“My Rowan. You were never normal to begin with.”
She dreamed of dancing beneath black suns. Of swimming through star fields. Of her body dissolving into pure light, then reforming stronger, brighter.
And always, he was there, guiding her, holding her, showing her wonders that no human eyes had seen.
When she woke at dawn, her bed was empty.
But the sheets beside her were still warm. The air still smelled of ozone and sea salt. Her thighs clenched without thought. The ache in her belly bloomed and held, not release but anticipation. A hunger neither food nor drink could satisfy.
And the spiral mark had grown—delicate tendrils now extending across her collarbone, down toward her breast, curling like waves frozen in mid-crash.
She touched it wonderingly. It no longer burned. It hummed, pleasant and warm, as if greeting her touch.
In the bathroom mirror, she studied her reflection. Her eyes seemed brighter. Her skin glowed. She looked…awake. Truly awake, perhaps for the first time.
“What am I becoming?” she whispered.
No voice answered. But the spiral pulsed once, like a promise.
Outside, the townsfolk were starting their day, unaware that anything had changed. They couldn’t see that the world was vaster, stranger, more beautiful and terrible than they knew.
They couldn’t see her, either. Not really.
But he did.
And soon, she would see him again. Not in dreams or visions, but here. In this room. In this bed.
And when she did, she would give him what he wanted.
Everything.
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