Page 44 of Dark Awakening

I could feel the scorching desire in his eyes raking over me. It sent a traitorous dart of heat through my core that I still despise.

Everything about him is hard edges, rough and demanding. He is built for claiming, forcing surrender, and taking without mercy. I hate that part of me still craves to feel that raw physicality against me again. When I felt the hard, pulsing length of him against me, it was a shock that ran through my entire body and made my eyes widen in a mix of pleasure and surprise.

It's pathetic, but some twisted part of me hopes we cross paths again. For now, he remains burned into my senses— a dangerous enigma I can't stop thinking about.

I’m dripping with arousal, and my mouth waters just thinking about having that vast, monstrous dick in my mouth. I long desperately for the feeling of it stretching and choking my throat, pushing past all resistance to invade me completely. I wonder what it would be like— his forceful thrusting, slamming his length down my throat? Or maybe he’d take it slow, giving me small doses so I could savor each inch as it crawled down? I want him to ravish me with his massive tool, making me gag and drool until I beg for mercy.

Jesus, just thinking about him makes my pussy throb wildly, dripping wet. I set my coffee down, and I slide one hand down my belly and rub circles around my engorged clit while the other hand slides between my legs, and I finger myself faster. All I can imagine is that delicious, massive cock of his taking me to new heights of pleasure. I moan louder and louder as I picture it and lose control of myself.

I pull myself out of my head and step into the bathroom, pushing open the door; the smell of lavender soap envelops me as humidity kisses my skin. I pad across the cold tile floor and glimpse myself in the foggy mirror—chestnut waves tangled around sleepy eyes, wisps framing my face.

Running my hands through my unruly locks, I comb out the knots with my fingers. As I massage my scalp, my mind drifts to last night— to the sensation of Rhyland's strong hands fisting through these same strands and gripping them tightly. A treacherous heat rushes through me at the memory.

Shaking away the vivid images, I grab my brush and work out the tangles, starting at the ends of my long chestnut tresses. No matter what products I use, my thick hair forever knots wildly, particularly along the length. It's a lost cause, yet a part of my ritual.

As I brush methodically, my thoughts circle back to the tests awaiting me at the lab today—more bloodwork to analyze this "mutation" I now possess. Alongside exhilaration, uncertainty gnaws at me. But answers will come in time. There is comfort in the familiar scientific process.

I head into the kitchen and desperately need some food. As I open the refrigerator and survey its contents, my stomach rumbles in anticipation. I decide to prepare a hearty breakfast to fuel me for the day ahead.

I reach for a carton of eggs, grab a couple of slices of bread, and pop them into the toaster. The golden-brown crusts emerge, toasted to perfection, ready to be slathered with butter and jam. I retrieve a plate, arrange the scrambled eggs on one side, and place the warm toast beside them. It’s a simple yet satisfying breakfast, a comforting start to the day.

I carry the plate to the dining table and sit. As I savor each mouthful, the creamy texture of the scrambled eggs and the crispy bite of the toast fill me with contentment. I reach for my phone, eager to catch up on the latest happenings in the virtual world. I navigate to my social media apps, scrolling through posts, pictures, and updates from friends and acquaintances.

A memory of an image pops up on my feed. It’s a photo from years ago, taken during a family vacation in Italy. My heart skips a beat as memories flood, transporting me to that moment. I see myself, a seventeen-year-old girl, standing between my parents, the three of us smiling, basking in the beauty of the Italian landscape. The sun casts a warm glow on our faces, highlighting the joy and love shared within our family.

But as I stare at the image, a wave of emotions crashes over me, and a vivid flashback consumes my mind. It’s a memory I have buried deep within that has haunted me ever since.

I'm transported to our old house outside my parents’ bedroom door.

Their hushed voices pique my curiosity, and against my better judgment, I press my ear against the wooden surface, desperate to catch their conversation.

“We can’t keep this from her forever, Martha. She deserves to know the truth.”

“I know, but she’s so happy and doesn’t need the burden of her past right now.”

“She’s not a child anymore, Martha. She deserves the chance to discover her roots and understand where she comes from.”

My heart pounds in my chest as their words sink in. My mind races to make sense of what they’re saying. The realization hits me like a freight train. The ground beneath me feels unsteady as my world tilts on its axis.

I whisper to myself, “No… I’m… adopted?”

The weight of this revelation crashes down on me, suffocating me with its enormity. I struggle to comprehend the implications of this newfound truth. Questions swarm my mind, clamoring for answers that may never come.

My childhood memories reflect a new light, casting shadows of doubt and uncertainty. Every moment shared with my parents now feels tainted, as though there was a secret lurking beneath the surface, hidden from my knowledge. Tears well up in my eyes as a storm of emotions washes over me. Hurt, confusion, and a profound sense of loss intertwine within my heart. I feel a deep longing to connect with my biological roots and understand who I truly am.

I barge in. How could they keep this from me? Why didn’t they tell me? The realization stings, leaving me feeling betrayed and adrift in a sea of unanswered questions. I struggle to make sense of my identity, to reconcile the person I thought I was with this newfound truth.

I shout, “I’m adopted?!”

My father said, “Dani, my dear, we didn’t keep it from you out of malice or deception. We wanted to protect you, to ensure you had a happy and stable childhood.”

My mother offered, “You were left at the hospital when you were just a few days old. We had been on a waiting list to adopt, and when the call came, it felt like a miracle. We were overjoyed to welcome you into our lives, Danica.”

My voice shook. “But why didn’t you tell me? Why keep it a secret?”

My father looks at me with a pained expression. “We feared it would change how you saw yourself and us as your parents. We didn’t want you to feel any different or less loved.”

My mother grabs my shoulders, teary-eyed, “Danica, you are our daughter in every way that matters. Biology doesn’t define a family; love and care do. We chose you, and you chose us.”

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