Chapter 3: The Morning After
The first grey light of dawn bled through the high windows, painting the wrecked weight room in shades of tired charcoal. The buzzing fluorescents seemed weaker now, ashamed by the sun.
Rygell stood over Lewis, breathing deep. The volcanic urgency had passed, leaving a profound, humming satiation in its wake. And something else—a slight but definite diminishment. She wasn’t human, not by a long shot, but she was no longer the absolute titan of minutes before. She was still enormous, powerful enough to make the space feel cramped, but she could now see over the top of the squat rack without craning her neck. The emerald of her skin remained, rich and deep, but the storm-cloud veins had receded to a faint tracing. The transformation, it seemed, was not a single event, but a tide. The pills were still in her system, ebbing and flowing.
Lewis lay sprawled on the bench, staring at the ceiling. He looked like a man who’d been hit by a truck, then tenderly reassembled by an obsessed artist. His shirt was rucked up, his jeans damp. He was still breathing hard.
“Sun’s up,” Rygell said, her voice lower than before, but still layered with that gravelly resonance.
He turned his head slowly, eyes finding her. The fear was a ghost now. Awed exhaustion and a spark of something proprietary had taken its place. He’d survived. More than survived.
“My shift ends at six,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She almost laughed. The mundane concern was absurd. Perfect. “Better clean up then, intern. Clock out on time. Wouldn’t want a mark on your record.”
She extended a hand. It was still large enough to envelop his, but now it seemed merely twice the size, not five times. He took it, his fingers cool against her perpetually warm skin. She pulled him upright with no effort. He swayed, steadying himself against the bench.
His eyes traveled over the destruction: the cracked tile, the bowed barbell, the shredded remains of her clothes, the dark, damp patch on the bench. “How… what do I…”
“Mop. Bucket. Janitor’s closet.” She spoke with the brisk tone of a professor assigning a simple task. “Say there was a leak. That the bumper plates fell. Get creative. You’re an English minor. Use your imagination.”
He nodded, running a hand through his disaster of hair. “Right. A leak.”
She watched him, that deep hunger coiling quietly again, not the raging inferno but a slow, patient burn. The sight of him—obedient, marked, hers—stoked it. She couldn’t let him leave like this. Not without a reminder.
“Come here,” she said, her tone softening to something dangerously casual.
He approached, warily. She reached out and adjusted his crumpled shirt collar, the gesture almost domestic. Then her fingers curled into the fabric at his chest. With a soft rrrip, the cheap cotton tore open, buttons pinging off the weight plates. He gasped, but didn’t retreat. His bare chest was pale, lean.
“Ruined anyway,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to his mouth.
She pulled him in, not with overwhelming force, but with undeniable intent. Her lips met his. He tasted of her, and of salt, and of something uniquely Lewis—spearmint gum and coffee. He froze for a second, then melted into it, his hands coming up to rest hesitantly on the dense curve of her waist. Her kiss was claiming, possessive, but there was a curious lightness to it, a hint of her old self playing in this new, devastating form.
She broke the kiss, leaving him breathless again. “Go on,” she said, giving him a gentle push toward the door. “Cleanup. Then go home and sleep. You look like hell.”
He stumbled a step, clutching his torn shirt together. “What… what about you?”
Rygell glanced at the empty green bottle glittering in the dust near her bag. A slow smile touched her lips. “I’ve got class to prepare for. And I need to find more of those supplements.”
She walked past him, her bare feet silent on the cold floor. He followed her out of the weight room, into the brighter, sanitized glow of the main gym floor. The contrast was jarring. Everything here was orderly, chrome and clean glass, untouched by the night’s chaos.
Her gaze fell on the high reception desk, a sweeping arc of polished laminate. A thought, hot and sudden, arrived fully formed.
She changed course. “Actually. One more thing before you mop.”
Lewis stopped, watching as she rounded the desk. She leaned back against it, the sturdy furniture creaking under her weight. The dawn light streamed directly onto her, turning her skin to jade. She crooked that same commanding finger.
He was pulled to her, the magnetic compulsion still operant. He stopped between her legs, which she parted just enough. The shredded leggings were a mere suggestion of fabric. The heat poured off her.
“You did good back there,” she said, conversationally, as if grading a paper. “Better than your last essay on Kafka, frankly.”
He let out a shaky, half-hysterical laugh. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything.” Her eyes held his. “This is just between us, Lewis. Our… independent study.”
He nodded, utterly serious now. “Yeah. Of course.”
“Good.” Her hands came down, not on him, but on the desk on either side of her hips. She lifted herself slightly, just enough, and then settled back down. The movement was deliberate, a slow, grinding rotation against the hard edge of the desk. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her. Her head fell back, the cords of her neck standing out.
Lewis watched, transfixed, as she used the unyielding surface for her own pleasure, a low, continuous rumble building in her chest. It was a performance and a confession. She was still hungry. She would always be hungry.
After a long minute, she went still, opened her eyes, and focused on him with frightening clarity. She was slick, the evidence darkening the light grey laminate.
“See?” she whispered, a thread of that old, wry humor in the monstrous depth of her voice. “Motivation.”
She slid off the desk. She picked up her gym bag, the straps straining, and walked toward the staff exit that led to the back alley. She didn't look back.
Lewis stood rooted, the taste of her in his mouth, the smell of her in his lungs, the sight of her claiming the mundane desk etched into his mind. The gym was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator in the snack corner.
He looked at the mop closet. He looked at the torn ruins of his shirt. He touched his swollen lips.
Then, moving as if in a dream, he walked behind the reception desk, sank into the rolling chair, and put his head in his hands. He didn't think about leaks or excuses. He thought about the ripple of emerald muscle under dawn light, the sound of groaning metal, and the look in her eyes when she said ours.
Outside, in the alley, Rygell tipped her face to the rising sun. The light felt different on her skin. She felt the power inside her, dormant but present, a sleeping giant in her blood. She hefted the bag. The bottle was empty, but she knew where she’d gotten it. The shady supplement shop downtown, the one with the blacked-out windows.
She had a class to teach at ten. Introduction to Romantic Poetry.
A slow smile spread across her face. She couldn’t wait to see if Lewis would be there.