Chapter 1: The Game Begins
Steam billowed from the shower, fogging the mirror and coating the cool tiles in a damp film. Laila pulled back the curtain, her skin flushed and beaded with water. The air smelled of lavender body wash and the faint, sweet decay of the building’s plumbing.She reached for her towel, draped over the top of the door, and stopped. Her breath caught.
He was perched on the closed toilet lid, wings a delicate sprawl of intricate patterns against the white porcelain, dripping with condensation. The thick, plush fur around his neck and shoulders was darkened with moisture. His four arms were folded casually, two lower hands resting on his knees, the upper pair crossed over his slim, fluffy chest. His solid black eyes watched her, unblinking, from a face framed by long, damp bangs. And between his legs, his tendril was unsheathed, a dark purple curve twitching lazily against the tile floor.
“You forgot to close the vent,” Maruu chirped. His voice was a soft, melodic rasp, like leaves skittering on pavement.Laila’s heart hammered against her ribs. Fear, sharp and cold, sliced through her first, followed by a flash of anger that warmed her cheeks. She clutched the towel to her chest, her green eyes narrowing. “Get out.”
He tilted his head, long feathery antennae swaying. A soft, clicking sound emanated from his throat—his version of a laugh. “Make me.”
She’d been documenting him for weeks now, since that first night he’d appeared at her grandmother’s window, a silent, furry shadow with too many limbs.Her grandmother had crossed herself and drawn the curtains. Laila had bought a digital voice recorder.Proof.That was all she wanted. But proof kept leading here, to this tiny bathroom, to the way his presence made the air feel charged and thin.
He unfurled from his perch in a single, fluid motion.His clawed feet tapped softly on the tile. The dripping from his wings made tiny, rhythmic patters. He was shorter than her, but he seemed to fill the space, the buzzing fluorescent light catching the iridescent dust that drifted from his wings.
“You look tense,” he said, his long black tongue flicking out to trace his own lower lip. “The shower didn’t help?”
“What do you want, Maruu?”
“You know what I want.” He took a step closer. The sweet, petal-like scent of him cut through the lavender. It was a smell that clung to her sheets for days afterward, a reminder that got under her skin.“You’ve been writing about me.In that little book. ‘Subject exhibits playful but predatory behavior.’” He mocked her clinical tone perfectly.“Playful. I like that.”
He was in front of her now.She didn’t back away. Her knuckles were white on the towel. She could feel the cold tile seeping into her bare feet.“It’s observation. Nothing personal.”
“Everything with humans is personal.” One of his upper hands lifted, a dark claw tracing a line through the condensation on her arm.She shivered. “Especially this.”
In a movement too quick to follow, his lower arms hooked behind her knees.He yanked. The world tilted, and her back hit the cold, hard floor with a jolt that knocked the air from her lungs.The towel was lost somewhere. Her wet hair splayed out around her head like a dark halo.
Before she could gasp or curse, he was over her, settling his weight on her thighs. His slit, glistening and already open, hovered inches above her mouth.The sweet smell was stronger here, musky and intoxicating. His tendril brushed her sternum, leaving a damp, cool trail.
“Observation,” he whispered, his black eyes holding hers. “Participant observation is the most effective method, isn’t it?”
Her mind screamed at her to push him off, to knee him, to fight. But her body was betraying her, a familiar heat coiling low in her stomach. Anger and desire were a sick, twisted knot inside her.She hated him.She needed to prove he was real. She wanted him to leave.She wanted this.“Fuck you,” she breathed, the words lacking conviction.
“That’s the idea,” he chirped, and lowered his hips.
The first contact was always a shock.Soft, giving flesh, wet and hot against her lips. The taste was vaguely floral, alien. She kept her eyes open, staring up at the blurred shape of him through the steam, at the subtle flutter of his wings, at the way his lower hands braced on the floor beside her head.One of his upper hands tangled in her wet hair, not pulling, just holding.
He let out a soft, shuddering sigh, a sound like wind through pine needles. It was the only sign that this was anything more than a game to him.
Laila closed her eyes and gave in.She hated how good she was at this. Hated the muffled, approving noises he made, the way his claws lightly scored her scalp. Her own arousal was a dull, aching throb between her legs, ignored but persistent.This was a transaction.A dreadful, necessary trade. He gave her proximity, moments of terrifying authenticity for her notes.She gave him… this. Whatever it was.His movements became more rhythmic, his breaths quicker.The delicate bones of his wings trembled. She could feel the tension building in the slender muscles of his thighs. She knew his tells now, the little hitch in his breath, the way his antennae would go perfectly still just before—
He jerked, a soft, truncated chirp escaping him.His body went taut, then limp. He lifted himself off her, tendril retracting with a slick sound. He stayed on his knees, straddling her chest, looking down at her with an unreadable expression. A strand of her saliva, mixed with his fluids, glistened on his dark fur.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing and the relentless drip-drip from the showerhead.
Then, he leaned down, his face close to hers. His tongue flicked out, catching a drop of water on her cheek.“You’re getting better at it,” he murmured.
The casual cruelty of the remark hit her like a slap. She shoved at his chest, and this time he let her, rolling back onto the tiles with a graceful ease. She scrambled to her feet, snatching the damp towel from the floor and wrapping it around herself.Humiliation burned through her, hotter than any desire.
“Get out,” she said again, her voice low and shaking.
He rose, preening his wings with fastidious care.“You’ll leave the window open tonight.” It wasn’t a question.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you want to see what I’ll do next.” He walked to the small, high window above the toilet—the one she always kept locked. With a deft claw, he flicked the latch she knew she’d secured.It popped open. A cool draft of night air swirled in, cutting through the steam. He glanced back at her, his black eyes reflecting the fractured light.“You’re not just writing a report, Laila. You’re writing an invitation.”
He bunched his powerful leg muscles and leapt, his form flowing through the narrow window with impossible silence.He was gone.
Laila stood there, shivering in the draft, listening to the distant sounds of the city.The taste of him was still in her mouth. The smell of him was on her skin, in the air. She looked at the open window, a black rectangle against the dirty white tiles.Her voice recorder was in her bedroom. She could detail the encounter now, while it was fresh. The exact texture, the sounds, the physiological responses—both his and her own.Her grandmother would cross herself again. The world would call her a liar or a lunatic.She walked to the mirror and wiped a clear circle in the fog. Her own face stared back: green eyes wide, jaw set with a stubbornness that felt like the only solid thing left in her life.
She didn’t close the window.