Chapter 1: The Party Dare
The bass wasn’t just in the air; it was in the teeth, in the bone, a relentless throb that made the laminate floor in Maya’s kitchen feel like a trampoline. Leo Vance leaned against the fridge, a cheap plastic cup of something warm and pungent in his hand, and watched the ecosystem of the party swirl around him.
Bodies pressed everywhere. A girl in a sheer top danced past, her eyes sliding over his chest and sticking for a second too long before she disappeared into the living room crush. He didn’t bother with a smile. He just adjusted his stance, feeling the familiar, satisfying pull of cotton across his shoulders. This shirt was new last month. Already, the seams were singing a tight song under his arms.
He’d been 5’10” when he got to Westbrook. A solid guy, maybe. Nothing special. Now, at 6’5”, he looked down on almost everyone in the room. The transformation wasn’t sudden. It was a creeping, addictive thing. A hook-up with a sorority sister after a kegger, and he’d woken up an inch taller, his back a little wider. Another, a Tinder date who couldn’t stop talking about his arms afterward, and the muscles had seemed to knit themselves thicker overnight.
It was the wanting that did it. The pure, sharp desire of them. He could feel it, a palpable heat that sank into his skin and changed his very geometry. Each one was a brick in the monument he was becoming.
“You’re staring at yourself in the chrome of the fridge again. It’s not a good look.”
Maya Torrez materialized beside him, a smirk playing on her lips. She had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes, but she did it like she was looking down at him. Her olive skin glowed under the sickly neon light strips she had tacked up everywhere, and her athletic frame was wrapped in something black and minimal that seemed to draw all the light in the room toward her.
“Just appreciating the craftsmanship,” Leo said, his voice a low rumble he still wasn’t completely used to. It had dropped, too.
“The craftsmanship.” Maya laughed, a sharp, clean sound that cut through the muddy music. Her hand came up, not to touch his face, but to press her fingertips against the center of his chest. He could feel the heat of her through the thin cotton. “I heard a new rumor tonight.”
“Let me guess. That I’ve got a third leg.”
“Close.” Her brown eyes were alight with a competitive, hungry curiosity. She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. The scent of her perfume, something expensive and jungly, momentarily overpowered the sweat and beer. “They’re saying it’s not a rumor. They’re saying it’s a fact. A measurable, verifiable fact.”
Leo felt a familiar, arrogant thrill twist in his gut. He said nothing, just took a slow drink, letting the tension build.
“Stacie Chen,” Maya whispered, nodding subtly toward a petite girl with a black bob by the sliding door. “She’s been telling people she needed a week to recover. That she couldn’t walk right for two days.”
He knew Stacie. Shy, surprisingly bold once you got her alone. A linguistics major. Three weeks ago. After her, the thick, dark hair that now curled across his pectorals and trailed down his stomach had begun its rapid conquest.
“People talk,” he said, a lazy shrug that made his deltoid strain the fabric.
“People do.” Maya’s fingers trailed down his sternum, over the hard plane of his stomach, and hooked very lightly into the waistband of his jeans. Her touch was electric, proprietary. “But I’m not people. I want to know what they’re all talking about.”
She was challenging him. Daring him. She was the only one who ever did anymore. The others just gasped and stared. Maya analyzed. She was the curator of his own legend, and she demanded exhibits.
“You already know,” he said, looking directly into her eyes.
“Knowing and seeing are different,” she countered, her smirk widening. “Prove it. Not to me. To them.”
She jerked her chin toward the crowded hall that led to the bedrooms. The party was at its peak, a sweating, heaving organism. A line for the bathroom, people spilling out of the kitchen with red plastic cups, laughter that was just a little too shrieky.
He understood her game immediately. It wasn’t about privacy. It was about spectacle. About walking through that gauntlet of horny, drunk curiosity with a target on his back—or rather, on his zipper. The ultimate flex. His arousal, always just beneath the surface these days, surged hot and heavy. He felt a dull ache in his spine, a subtle popping sensation as he straightened up. He was getting bigger. Right now. The sheer, visceral want in Maya’s eyes was feeding the change.
“Who?” he asked, his voice even lower.
Maya’s eyes scanned the room like a predator. They landed on Stacie’s friend, a willowy redhead named Chloe who was laughing too loudly at something a fraternity brother was saying. Chloe had been shooting glances his way all night, her desire a nervous, fluttery pulse he could feel from across the room.
“Her,” Maya said. “The redhead. I dare you.”
The word ‘dare’ settled it. It was the catalyst. A fresh, sharp wave of heat flooded his system. His knuckles ached. He looked down and saw the dark hair on the back of his hands seemed coarser, thicker. The cup in his hand felt ridiculously small, a toy. He crushed it and dropped it in a overflowing trash bag.
“Okay,” he said.
He pushed off the fridge. The crowd in the narrow hall didn’t so much part as he forged through it. His broad shoulders brushed against people on both sides. He saw the reactions. The double-takes. The whispered, “Holy shit, is that Leo?” The way eyes dipped, instinctively, involuntarily, to the pronounced, straining bulge in his jeans. The rumors made it a lodestone.
Chloe saw him coming. Her laughter died. Her eyes went wide, then dark. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. The music was too loud anyway. He just stopped in front of her, the wall of his body blocking her view of the party.
“You want to see?” he asked, the question barely more than a vibration.
She bit her lip, nodded, her face flushing a deep scarlet that clashed with her hair. He took her wrist. Her skin was fever-hot. He led her back through the same gauntlet, past Maya who gave him a slow, approving clap, past the stunned and envious faces, toward the last door on the left.
It was Maya’s room. Incense and expensive laundry detergent. A Himalayan salt lamp cast the space in a grotesque pink glow. He closed the door. The thunder of the bass was muted here, a persistent, rhythmic throbbing in the floorboards.
Chloe was already kissing him, her hands clumsy and frantic on his chest, pawing at the new, dense hair. He pushed her back gently onto the bed. There was no finesse, no pretense. This was a transaction. Proof of concept. He undid his jeans.
Her gasp was genuine. A sharp intake of breath that held pure shock. Her desire, in that moment, was absolute, a terrified, thrilling awe. It hit him like a drug.
As he moved over her, he felt it happening again. The strange, internal shifting. A tightness across his lats, a deepening in his chest. His hips felt broader, his thrusts more powerful, piston-like. He was losing himself in the feedback loop of her want, becoming more of what she desired. He was a monster being sculpted by her admiration.
He finished with a guttural sound, rolling off her. Chloe lay beside him, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling with a dazed, ruined look. He sat up on the edge of the bed, looking down at his own body. His biceps were larger. The veins were ro