Chapter 1: Awakening in Silk and Confusion
The first thing she felt was the silk.
It was cool and slippery against skin that felt too soft, too exposed. Mehdi groaned, pushing herself up on elbows that seemed oddly delicate, and the movement made something heavy and warm shift against her chest. Her hands flew up, patting, pressing—and the sensation was so alien, so utterly wrong, that her breath hitched in a throat that felt narrower.
They were breasts. Full, heavy, unmistakably female.
She scrambled backward, the sheets tangling around legs that were smooth and long. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a new cage. The room was dark, lit only by the intermittent flash of lightning beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the Seattle skyline in stark, blue-white relief. Rain streamed down the glass like tears.
Her own hands were a mystery in the half-light. Slender fingers, tipped with perfectly shaped nails painted a deep burgundy. She raised one trembling hand to her face, feeling the curve of a cheekbone that was too high, the fullness of a lip she didn’t recognize. Her hair fell over her shoulder, a cascade of black silk that smelled of jasmine and coconut.
“No,” she whispered, and the voice was a stranger’s too. Husky, but undeniably feminine. “This is a dream. A bad dream.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet sinking into plush carpet. The walk to the en-suite bathroom was only ten paces, but it felt like a mile. Every step was a negotiation with a new center of gravity, a sway in the hips she had to consciously resist. The cool metal of a doorknob under her palm was a shock.
She flicked the light on, and the world shattered.
The woman in the mirror was stunning. She had Mehdi’s dark eyes, but they were larger, framed by thick lashes. Her face was a heart-shaped masterpiece of sharp cheekbones and a full, pouty mouth. A tiny diamond stud glittered in the side of her nose. She wore a simple black tank top and silk shorts, and the lines of the body beneath were curved, lush, impossible.
Mehdi’s hand—her hand—pulled up the hem of the tank top. A silver hoop gleamed from her navel. The skin of her stomach was flat and smooth, dipping down into the waistband of the shorts. Lower. A hollow, buzzing dread pulled her gaze downward. With a shaky breath, she hooked her thumbs into the shorts and peeled them down an inch.
The thatch of hair she expected was gone. The skin there was hairless, smooth. The shape of her was entirely different. She let the fabric snap back, the motion sending a strange, electric jolt through nerves she didn’t know she had.
A deep, resonant sound echoed from behind the closed shower door, followed by a low, rumbling cough.
Mehdi froze. Her eyes snapped to the shower door, where a massive, blurred silhouette moved behind the fogged glass. Steam seeped out from the edges.
“Mehdi?” The voice was deep, gravelly with sleep and steam. It vibrated in her chest. “You awake out there?”
It was Ashraf’s voice. But it wasn’t. It was Ashraf’s cadence, his warmth, filtered through a vocal register that belonged in a action movie trailer.
The shower door slid open with a rumble.
The man who stepped out, toweling his hair, was a stranger built from familiar parts. He was broader, thicker, his shoulders and chest wide slabs of muscle matted with a dark pelt of hair that trailed down his flat, hard stomach. Water droplets caught in the coarse hair on his forearms, on his powerful thighs. His jaw was squared, shadowed with stubble. His eyes, Ashraf’s gentle, brown eyes, were now set in a face that was all stark angles and weathered planes.
He stopped toweling, his gaze finding her in the mirror. A slow, confused smile touched his lips. “Hey. You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Mehdi could only stare. Her mouth was dry. This was her husband. The man she had shared a life with for twelve years. The gentle, thoughtful partner who loved poetry and grew basil on the kitchen windowsill. This… this mountain of a man was him.
“Ashraf?” Her voice was small.
“Yeah, it’s me.” He chuckled, the sound rich and unfamiliar. He took a step forward, and she instinctively took a half-step back, her bare shoulders pressing against the cool bathroom wall. He noticed, his smile fading. “Whoa. Hey. It’s just me.”
“Just you?” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat. “Look at us! Look at me!” She gestured wildly at her own reflection. “What the hell happened?”
His brow furrowed. He looked down at his own body, his large hands turning over as if seeing them for the first time. “I… I don’t know. I woke up and everything was… louder. Heavier. I feel… God, I feel like I could run through a wall.” He flexed one hand, watching the tendons move. Then his eyes lifted back to her, and the look in them shifted. It was still Ashraf’s kindness, but underneath it was a new heat, a raw, appraising intensity that made her breath catch.
His gaze traveled from her eyes, down the column of her throat, over the pronounced curve of her breasts against the thin tank top. She saw his pupils darken, his nostrils flare almost imperceptibly. A fresh, different kind of panic licked up her spine.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she breathed.
“Like what?” He took another step, closing the distance. The heat radiating from his body was immense, like standing near a furnace. The scent of his soap—their soap, sandalwood—mixed with something else, something musky and fundamentally male.
“Like you’re… looking at me.” She wrapped her arms around herself, a defensive gesture that only pushed her breasts together, and she saw his eyes track the movement. A flush of heat, one that had nothing to do with fear, spread from her chest down to her belly. It was a low, aching pull, a physical hunger so sharp it was dizzying.
“Mehdi,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You’re my wife.”
“I was your husband,” she shot back, but the words lacked force. Her attention was splintering. The concern in his eyes was familiar, but the sheer physical presence of him was overwhelming. And her own body was betraying her, humming with a sensitivity that was both terrifying and tantalizing. The brush of silk against her nipples was a conscious pleasure. The air between her legs felt charged.
“You still are.” He reached out, his hand—so much larger than it used to be—coming up to cup her cheek. His thumb stroked her cheekbone. The touch was electric. It wasn’t just his touch; it was her skin, hyper-aware, drinking in the roughness of his thumbpad. A shiver ran through her, and the aching between her legs deepened into a distinct, throbbing need.
She saw the moment he felt it too. His eyes darkened further, that new, primal instinct surfacing. His other hand came up, settling on her waist, his fingers spanning almost the entire width. He could lift her like nothing. The thought should have frightened her. A part of her, the part that had once been a man used to control, did rebel. But a louder, newer part arched subtly into the heat of his palm.
“This is crazy,” she whispered, her eyes locked on his.
“It is,” he agreed, his head dipping. His breath fanned her lips. He smelled of steam and skin and man. “But you’re still you. I’m still me.”
He was going to kiss her. This new, giant version of her gentle wife was going to kiss her, and her body was screaming for it, even as her mind reeled. The storm outside chose that moment to lash the windows with a fresh volley of rain, drowning out the sound of their breathing.
Just before his lips met hers, a cellphone buzzed violently on the bathroom counter, lighting up with a cascade of emergency alerts. They both jerked back, the spell momentarily broken.
Ashraf grabbed it, his huge fingers clumsy on the screen. He scanned it, his expression shifting from desire to dawning, global horror. “Mehdi…”
“What?”
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, filled with a truth more unsettling than their transformed bodies. “It’s not just us.” He showed her the screen. “It’s everyone.”