I woke up to the cackle of a witch telling me that I will be a woman for the rest of my life. My masculine features had turned feminine. I looked at myself in a mirror and realized what I had become. I had C-cup tits, a rounded ass, red hair, green eyes, tan and fit. The witch said there were people fighting over me and whoever won would come and claim me. She said my name is Donna from now on and I was no longer aloud to think of myself as a man. She said that she hoped I liked sucking dick.

Chapter 1: The Witch's Morning Taunt

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Burnt herbs and something older, something like rotting flowers, curled into my nostrils and yanked me out of sleep. My eyes snapped open. The ceiling above me was unfamiliar—water-stained plaster, a single bare bulb swinging slow circles of sickly yellow light.

The second thing I noticed was that my body didn't feel right.

Not wrong in the way of a hangover or a bad dream. Wrong in the way of wearing someone else's skin. My chest felt heavier. My hips ached with a strange new width. And when I tried to sit up, my center of gravity pitched forward in a way that made me grab the mattress edge with hands that were too small, too soft, nails painted a chipped burgundy I'd never chosen.

"What the fuck," I whispered.

Except the voice that came out wasn't mine.

It was higher. Throatier. Still rough with sleep but undeniably feminine, and it sent a cold spike of terror straight through my chest.

Somewhere behind me, a wet, delighted cackle split the air.

"There she is. My little butterfly, finally awake."

I spun—or tried to. My body moved differently, all these new curves shifting in ways my brain couldn't predict. I ended up tangled in the thin cotton sheet, staring at the figure perched on a wooden stool in the corner of the attic.

She was old. Ancient in a way that went beyond wrinkles. Her gray hair stuck out in wild, greasy spikes, and her fingers were gnarled, curled around something that smoked and stank. Her eyes—those eyes—shifted colors like oil on water. Green to purple to black and back again.

"Morrigan," I breathed.

The name came out automatically. I knew her. Knew her from the nightmare that had started all of this, the alley, the whispered words, the deal I should have refused.

"Don't look so surprised, sweetheart." She hopped off the stool with a spryness that didn't match her appearance. "You knew this was coming. You asked for it."

"I didn't—" My voice cracked. I pressed a hand to my throat, feeling the smooth column of it, the absence of my Adam's apple. "I didn't ask for this."

"You asked for power. For an edge. For something to make you special." She shuffled closer, and the smell got worse, a rot mixed with honey. "Magic always takes payment, boy. Girl. Whatever you are now."

I looked down at myself.

C-cup breasts. That was the first thing my brain registered, because they were right there, straining against the thin tank top I'd worn to bed. But the tank top was different now—cut low, stretching across a body that wasn't mine. My stomach was flat, my waist narrow, my thighs thick and unfamiliar as they pressed together under the sheets.

My hands shook as I raised them. Slender fingers. Delicate wrists. The burgundy nails caught the flickering light.

"No," I said. "No, no, no—"

"Enough of that." Morrigan's voice sharpened. "You're not the first and you won't be the last. Crying about it won't change the shape of your tits."

I looked up at her, and something inside me—something that had been a man, that had walked through the world with a certain kind of ease, that had never once feared being alone in a room with a stranger—that something cracked.

"Change me back."

"No."

"Change me back!" I lunged off the bed, and my new body betrayed me. I stumbled, caught myself on a dresser that I didn't recognize, and found myself staring into a cracked mirror.

The woman looking back wasn't me.

She was beautiful. That was the cruelest part. Vibrant red hair tumbled past her shoulders in messy waves, bright as fresh blood against skin that glowed with a healthy tan. Her eyes were green—no, my eyes were green—wide and striking, framed by lashes that looked like they'd been painted on. Full lips. High cheekbones. A face that would make men stumble over their own feet.

I touched my cheek. The woman in the mirror touched hers.

The sensation was wrong. Too soft. Too sensitive.

"I hate it," I whispered.

"You'll learn to love it." Morrigan appeared behind me in the mirror, her oil-slick eyes reflected above my shoulder. "They always do. Eventually."

I whirled on her—carefully this time, learning the new weight of my hips, the way my breasts shifted with the movement. "Why? Why did you do this to me?"

"Because I could." She shrugged. "Because you were boring. A sad little man in a sad little apartment, wishing you were special. Well." Her cracked lips split into a grin. "Now you're special."

"This isn't—I'm not—"

"A woman?" Morrigan laughed. "Oh, you're more than that. You're a prize. A treasure. A commodity."

The word landed like a slap. "What?"

"You think I cursed you just for fun?" She circled me, and I fought the urge to back away. "There's always a purpose. Always a game. And you, sweet Donna—"

"That's not my name."

"It is now." Her eyes flashed black. "And the sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

I pressed my lips together. Everything in me wanted to scream, to fight, to tear this attic apart with my bare hands. But I was smart enough to know that wouldn't help. Morrigan had power. I had nothing but a new body and a rising tide of panic.

"What game?" I asked through gritted teeth.

The witch's smile widened.

"There's a man downstairs. Actually, there are two." She held up her fingers, wiggling them. "Kade and Marcus. Both of them... interested in you. They've been fighting over you since before you woke up."

The words didn't make sense. "I don't know anyone named Kade or Marcus."

"You didn't. But they know you." She tapped her temple with one cracked nail. "I made sure of that. Planted memories. Little seeds of desire. To them, you're the girl they've been searching for their whole lives. The one they'd kill for."

My stomach dropped. "You're insane."

"I'm bored." She shrugged again. "But that's not the point. The point is, they're downstairs, and they're hungry. And when they see you—"

She looked me up and down, taking in the red hair, the curves, the sheer overwhelming femininity of my new form.

"—they're going to tear each other apart."

"You can't—"

"And the winner?" Morrigan leaned close, her breath sour and hot against my ear. "The winner gets to come upstairs. Gets to claim his prize. Gets to have you, in every way a man can have a woman."

Bile rose in my throat. "No."

"Yes." She stepped back, spreading her hands like a magician revealing a trick. "You've got until nightfall. A few hours at most. Then the winner will come for you."

I stared at her, chest heaving, hands clenched into fists at my sides. The tank top felt obscene, clinging to breasts I never asked for. The air in the attic was thick with the scent of those burning herbs, sickly sweet, making my head spin.

"I'll run," I said.

"You can try." Morrigan didn't look concerned. "But they'll find you. They always do."

"I'll fight."

"Oh, I hope you do." Her grin split her face, wider than it should have been. "That makes it so much more entertaining."

She turned, shuffling toward the stairs. At the top, she paused, looking back at me with those terrible, shifting eyes.

"One more thing, Donna."

"Don't call me that."

"You should know—the change has already started to work on your mind." She tapped her temple. "Hormones. Instincts. The wiring of your brain, rewiring itself to match the body. You'll start to feel things. Want things. It's already beginning."

I shook my head. "You're lying."

"Am I?" She tilted her head. "Feeling a little warm between your legs right now? A little... aware of your own skin?"

I hated her.

I hated her because she was right.

"Good luck," she whispered. "You're going to need it."

She descended the stairs, her cackle echoing up behind her. I heard a door slam somewhere below. Then silence.

I turned back to the mirror.

The woman—Donna—stared back at me, green eyes wide with terror and rage. Her chest rose and fell, that tank top stretching with each breath. Her red hair spilled over her shoulders. Her lips parted.

"I'm not you," I told the reflection. "I'm not."

She didn't answer. She just kept staring. And somewhere deep in my chest, something stirred—a warmth, a wanting—that I didn't recognize and couldn't stop.

I pressed my thighs together and felt a slickness there that had no business existing.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

But the word meant nothing.

The floorboards creaked below my feet. Something moved in the attic shadows. And outside, the sun was sinking toward the horizon, counting down to nightfall.

I had a few hours left as myself.

A few hours before the winner came.

I tore through the dresser drawers like a madwoman—God, that word, woman—searching for something, anything, that would make me less of a target. Jeans. A hoodie. Something that didn't make my new body look like an invitation.

What I found was worse.

Lingerie. Actual goddamn lingerie, lace and silk in blood-red and midnight black, folded with care like someone had planned this. Like she had planned this. Underneath those, a few thin sundresses that would cling to every curve I didn't want, and one pair of heels that looked like they'd been designed specifically to make a man's cock twitch.

"No," I muttered, slamming the drawer shut.

I checked the next one. Empty. The one after that. Empty. The witch had left me nothing but weapons to use against myself.

Fine. I'd wear what I had on. The tank top and the cotton shorts I'd woken up in. They weren't much, but they covered more than anything in that drawer. I crossed my arms over my chest, pressing down on breasts that felt heavy and strange, and walked to the attic window.

The glass was grimy, filmed with decades of dust, but I could still see outside. A narrow street. Trees. Houses that looked normal enough. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The sun sat low on the horizon, bleeding orange and pink across the sky.

A few hours. Maybe less.

I pressed my palm against the glass and felt the heat of the day still radiating off it. I could break it. Climb out. Run.

And then what? I had no money. No ID. No clothes that fit this body. I didn't even know what city I was in. The last thing I remembered before waking up here was walking home from a bar, taking a shortcut through an alley, hearing a voice behind me—

"You're thinking too loud."

I spun.

Morrigan stood in the corner, arms crossed, her oil-slick eyes glittering with amusement. I hadn't heard her come up the stairs. I hadn't heard anything.

"Get out of my head," I said.

"Can't. You're in my house." She grinned, showing teeth that were too yellow, too sharp. "And you're wasting time. The boys are getting restless."

"Let them."

"Oh, sweetheart." She clicked her tongue. "You don't understand. They're not just going to knock politely and wait for you to open the door. When they decide it's time, they'll come through the walls if they have to."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "What are they?"

"Men." She shrugged. "Mostly. But men with a purpose. Men who've been told their whole lives that there's someone out there made just for them, and all they have to do is find her and take her."

"That's not—that's not how people work."

"It is when I make it that way." She walked toward me, slow and deliberate, her bare feet shuffling against the floorboards. "I've been doing this a long time, Donna. Centuries. And I've learned a few things about the human animal."

"Don't call me that."

"You keep saying that. And yet—" She stopped inches from me, close enough that I could smell the rot on her breath. "—you haven't corrected me with a different name. What should I call you? Your old name? The one you can't even remember anymore?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

She was right.

I couldn't remember my name.

Not the one my parents gave me. Not the one on my driver's license. Nothing. There was a space in my head where it used to be, a smooth blank wall, and when I tried to reach past it, I just... couldn't.

"What did you do to me?" My voice came out small. Broken.

"I gave you a fresh start." Morrigan reached up and touched my cheek. Her fingers were rough, calloused, and they left a trail of heat on my skin. "Everything before this morning? Gone. The job you hated. The apartment with the leaky faucet. The ex-girlfriend who cheated on you with your best friend. All of it. Wiped clean."

I stared at her. The words should have meant something. Should have triggered memories, pain, something. But there was nothing. Just that blank wall.

"I don't... I don't remember any of that."

"I know." She smiled. "That's the gift. You get to start over. No baggage. No history. Just a brand-new life in a brand-new body."

"You call this a gift?"

"I call it what you make of it." She dropped her hand. "Right now, you're making it a tragedy. But you could make it something else."

I wanted to hit her. Wanted to wrap my hands around her wrinkled throat and squeeze until those shifting eyes went still. But I wasn't stupid. She was a witch. I was a... whatever I was now. The math didn't work in my favor.

"Here's what's going to happen," Morrigan said, stepping back. "In about an hour, Kade and Marcus are going to finish their little pissing contest downstairs. One of them will win. The other will be very, very sorry he lost."

"This is insane."

"The winner will come up here. He'll see you, and he'll want you, and he won't take no for an answer." She tilted her head. "Unless you can convince him otherwise."

"How?"

Her grin widened. "I have no idea. That's the fun part."

She turned and shuffled toward the stairs, her cackle echoing off the walls. I heard her descend, heard the creak of the door at the bottom, and then silence.

I was alone again.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, and my new body settled in ways that felt foreign and wrong. My thighs pressed together, and I felt it again—that slickness, that warmth. My nipples were hard against the tank top, sensitive to the brush of fabric, and every time I shifted, a little shock of pleasure ran through me.

It was disgusting. It was mine. This body wanted things I didn't want. It responded to touch I hadn't asked for. And the worst part was, I couldn't turn it off.

I hated Morrigan. Hated her more than I'd ever hated anything.

But underneath the hate, something else was stirring. Something dark and unfamiliar. A curiosity. A wanting.

I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling the steady thump of my heart. Then I let my fingers trail lower, down my stomach, stopping at the waistband of my shorts.

No, I told myself. Don't.

But my hand moved anyway.

I slid my fingers beneath the fabric, past the soft hair that was somehow the same shade of red as the hair on my head. And when I touched myself—that wet, warm place between my legs—I gasped.

It felt good.

So good it scared me.

I yanked my hand back like I'd been burned. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my face was hot, flushed with shame and something else. Something worse.

Before I could process what had just happened, I heard it.

A crash downstairs. Loud. Violent. Wood splintering, glass breaking, two voices raised in anger.

"—SHE'S MINE!"

"LIKE HELL SHE IS!"

The fight. They were fighting. Over me.

I stood up, my legs shaking. I needed to move. Needed to find a way out of this room, out of this house, out of this nightmare. But the window was locked, and I didn't know how to open it, and the only door led downstairs, straight into the chaos.

The shouting got louder. More crashes. Something heavy hit the wall, and the whole attic shuddered.

Then silence.

It was worse than the noise. That silence. Heavy and waiting. Like the moment before a thunderstorm.

I held my breath.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Slow. Heavy. Purposeful.

I searched the room for something to defend myself with. Nothing. The dresser. The bed. A small lamp that wouldn't do any damage. The window with its locked latch.

The footsteps got closer.

I backed against the wall, arms crossed over my chest, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

The doorknob turned.

Kade bursts in.

Kade filled the doorway like a storm about to break.

He was tall—taller than I'd been, taller than most men I'd ever seen—with broad shoulders that seemed to strain against the fabric of his black t-shirt. His jaw was square, shadowed with stubble, and his eyes were dark and hungry in a way that made my stomach clench with fear and something else I refused to name.

He looked at me.

I felt it. Physically felt it, the weight of his gaze dragging over my body like hands. Over my hair, my face, my breasts pressed against the thin tank top, my bare legs, my feet. He took his time. Like he was memorizing me.

"Donna," he said.

The name hit me like a slap. I wanted to correct him, tell him that wasn't my name, that I wasn't whoever Morrigan had told him I was. But the words died in my throat.

He stepped into the room.

I pressed my back against the wall, as if I could become part of it, disappear into the faded roses and peeling wallpaper. My hands were shaking. My heart was slamming against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my temples.

"Stay away from me," I said.

My voice came out higher than I expected. Softer. It didn't sound like a warning. It sounded like prey.

Kade smiled.

"Don't be scared." His voice was low, rough, like gravel rolling downhill. "I've been waiting for you a long time."

"I don't know you."

"You will." He took another step. "I'm going to make sure you know every inch of me before the night is over."

The words sent a bolt of heat through me—unwanted, involuntary, but there. My body reacted before my brain could stop it. My nipples tightened. My thighs pressed together. That slickness Between my legs grew, and I hated myself for it.

Morrigan's voice echoed in my head. The change has already started to work on your mind.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. "This isn't—you're being manipulated. Morrigan did something to you, planted memories—"

"I know." Kade stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could smell him—leather and sweat and something musky underneath. "She told me. Made me remember a life we never had. A love we never shared."

I stared at him. "And you don't care?"

He shrugged, one massive shoulder rolling. "I don't give a shit how I got here. I only care about what happens next."

"You're insane."

"Maybe." He reached out and touched my hair. Just a strand of it, curling it around his finger. The contact sent a shiver down my spine. "But that doesn't change anything. I won. The fight downstairs, the asshole who thought he could take what's mine—I won. And now I'm claiming my prize."

I tried to push past him. Kade caught my wrist, easy as breathing. His grip was iron, but not painful—just absolute. Unbreakable.

"Let go of me."

"No."

"I said—"

"I heard what you said." He pulled me closer, and my body followed like it had no choice. My chest pressed against his stomach. My head tilted back to look up at him. "You can fight me if you want. I don't mind. I like it when they fight."

I spat at him.

The saliva hit his cheek. He blinked. Then he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through me.

"There she is," he said. "There's the fire."

He wiped his face with his free hand. Then he kissed me.

I didn't kiss him back. I should have bitten him, kneed him, done something. But my body didn't cooperate. My lips parted on their own. My tongue touched his. And when he groaned into my mouth, something inside me clenched in response.

The kiss deepened. He tasted like whiskey and victory. His hands moved to my waist, spanning the entire width of it, and his thumbs pressed into my hipbones in a way that made me gasp.

He gave me no time to process anything. He simply picked me up as if I weighed nothing, tossed me onto the mattress, and climbed over me before I could scramble away.

I pushed at his chest, at his shoulders, at anything I could reach. It didn't matter. He settled between my legs, and I felt his weight pressing down on me, the hard length of his cock still contained behind denim, grinding against my shorts. Right where Morrigan's curse had made me wet and aching.

"Stop," I said.

He kissed my neck. His stubble scraped my skin, leaving a hot, tingling trail. I squirmed, but his hand pinned my hip.

"Please."

It came out weak, and I hated myself for it.

Kade pulled back enough to look at me. His dark eyes were burning with a hunger that should have terrified me. It did terrify me.

"I'm going to fuck you," he said bluntly. "I've waited too long for this. I can smell how much you want it. You're dripping through those little shorts."

My face burned. Shame, fury, need. All tangled together.

"I don't—"

"You do." He slid a hand between us, cupping the secret place between my legs through the fabric before I could clench my thighs to stop him. One finger stroked me through the cotton, and I jerked like I'd been electrocuted. A whimper escaped my throat. "You're soaked. Your body knows what it wants."

He pulled my shorts and underwear down to my knees in one rough motion. I kicked, tried to close my legs, but he shoved his knee between them, spreading me open.

The air hit my exposed slick flesh, and I shuddered. He looked down at me. At the place I couldn't see but could feel—wet, pink, swollen, betraying me.

"Look at that." His voice was thick. "Pretty little cunt, all ready for me."

The crude words sent another pulse of heat through me. I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear. I wanted, God help me, something else entirely.

Kade unbuckled his belt. The clink of metal made me flinch. He shoved his jeans down just enough, and then his cock was out—thick, long, the head already slick and red, veins standing out along the shaft like ropes.

He stroked himself once, twice. Looking at me the whole time.

"Please," I said again. But this time even I didn't know what I was asking for.

He positioned himself at my entrance. I felt the blunt pressure of him, the impossible stretch waiting to happen.

"Beg me for it," he said.

I shook my head. "No."

"Then I'll wait." He didn't move. Just stayed there, the tip of him barely inside me, stretching me just enough to make me crazy. "I've got all night."

I tried to move away, but there was nowhere to go. His body trapped mine. His cock teased my entrance, just enough pressure to make me gasp, not enough to satisfy.

"Fuck you," I whispered.

His grin widened.

"I said—"

He drove into me.

The pain was sharp and immediate, a tearing burning fullness. I screamed and tried to curl away, but he grabbed my hips and pulled me onto him. Deeper.

"Shh," he said. "Take it. Take all of it."

My body shook. I couldn't breathe. The stretch felt impossible—too much, too full, too thick. He didn't stop until his pelvis was flush against mine, until every inch of him was buried inside me. I could feel him in places I didn't know existed, my inner walls clenching and trembling around his intrusion.

He didn't move. Just watched my face. His chest heaved, breath ragged. Sweat already beaded at his temples.

"Tight," he grunted. "So fucking tight."

Then he started to move.

The first thrust was slow, a drag that made me feel every inch of him. The second was harder. The third made my back arch off the mattress.

My body didn't get the message that this was wrong. Instead, a strange, full pleasure began to curl through the pain. He found a rhythm, steady and deep, hitting something inside me that made my toes curl. A slick, wet heat spread beneath my hips. My hands, which had been pushing against his chest, stopped pushing; my fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and held on.

"That's it," he said. "Stop fighting. Let me fuck you."

I didn't answer. Couldn't. The sounds coming out of my mouth were inhuman, a mix of moans and gasps and whimpers that I couldn't control.

He pressed his body down on top of mine, driving deeper. His lips found my neck, my collarbone, the tops of my breasts that spilled from the tank top. He bit down on one nipple through the cotton, and I cried out, my hips rolling up to meet him.

He laughed above me, breath hot and humid, and worked his hips harder. He fucked me like he had something to prove. Fucked me like my body was his, like he'd earned it, like there was nothing else in the world but this.

I hated him. I hated the way my body opened for him. I hated the wet sounds we were making. I hated the way my own slickness made everything easier, sliding and squelching with each deep thrust.

Fucking me. That's what he was doing. Fucking me open, fucking me raw. And on some level, I was letting him.

"Come on," he growled. "Give it up. Let me feel you come on my cock."

I didn't want to. But the tension was already coiled too tight. His pelvis ground against my clit with every thrust. The pressure built and built.

The orgasm ripped through me without permission.

It felt like drowning. Like every muscle in my body locked up at once and then released in a flood. I screamed, and my inner walls clamped down around his cock, milking him in waves. Pleasure so intense it was almost pain. Wave after wave, dragging me under, pulling sounds out of me I'd never made before.

Kade cursed. "Fuck, yes."

He fucked me through it, brutal and fast, his balls slapping against my ass. Just when the last waves were subsiding, he buried himself deep, grinding into me, and came with a roar. His cock pulsing, spilling heat deep inside me. Once. Twice. Three times.

He collapsed onto his elbows, breathing hard, face buried in my hair. His weight pressed me down, and I could feel his heart hammering against my chest.

I closed my eyes.

The attic smelled like sex and sweat now. And Morrigan's laughter drifted up the stairs—soft, pleased, satisfied.

The curse worked faster than I thought it would. The hormones flooding my brain made it hard to think. All I could feel was the soreness between my legs, a deep, full ache, and the slow, terrifying realization that my body wanted more.

Kade lifted his head and looked at me. His dark eyes had softened, almost gentle now.

"What's your name?" he asked.

I stared at him, hating him, hating myself, hating Morrigan and this whole goddamn world.

"Donna," I whispered.

His smile was slow and satisfied.

"That's right. My Donna."

He pulled out of me, and I felt a rush of warmth between my legs—his seed, mixed with everything else, dripping out of me. I didn't move. Couldn't.

Outside, the last of the light faded from the sky.

Night had come.