Page 7 of Beneath the Desert Bloom
She poured herself a glass of wine, settling into the worn chair at the small table. The room felt familiar, like the years away hadn’t stretched so far after all.
Nora ate slowly, savoring the feeling of being back in a place that, despite everything, felt like home. Afterward, she curled up on the bed, pullingJane Eyrefrom her bag. She traced the worn spine with her fingers, letting the words pull her into another world. Her eyes grew heavy, the room darkening around her.
***
And then the dream began.
This time, it didn’t start with wind.
It started with water.
Nora stood naked, waist-deep in a natural pool, steam rising around her. Smooth rock walls curved around the water, glistening with condensation. The air was thick and warm, smelling of wet stone and mineral springs. The water lapped at her skin, flowing over her hips, her thighs, like it wanted to pull her under.
She knew it was a dream. She always did. But this time, she didn’t want to wake up. The warmth seeped into her bones, soothing the ache from days of tension. She moved slowly, dipping her hands beneath the surface, washing her arms, letting the droplets trail down her fingers.
The stillness shifted.
A presence settled at the edge of the pool.
Her pulse quickened, but she didn’t move. She kept her eyes on the water, pretending not to notice. But the sensation of being watched wrapped around her like steam, dense and inescapable.
She turned.
He was there.
Just past the curve of the stone, standing half in shadow. The water flickered light over his chest, catching on the rough lines of muscle and the bark-textured ridges of his skin. From within the crevices between those ridges, a faint amber glow pulsed, soft as embers beneath bark, like something ancient burning just under the surface. His hair clung to his face, damp and wild, but his eyes cut through the steam. Golden, sharp, and fixed on her.
She didn’t move.
He didn’t either.
The line of his hips stole her breath. He was beautiful in a way that felt wrong for the waking world. The kind of form that felt sculpted not by evolution, but by some wild, half-forgotten god. Ancient. Inevitable. And just below the muscled plane of his abdomen, his cock hung thick and heavy, partially hard. The sight of it struck her like a blow.
Something low and molten stirred inside her.
Her nipples tightened under the water. That low, dangerous ache returned, thick and spreading through her limbs. And he was looking at her like she was the only thing left in the world worth seeing. And she didn’t turn away. Didn’t shield herself.
She took a step toward him.
But when her foot touched the surface, something had changed.
The water vanished.
In a blink, she was standing in dust. Bare. Dry. The pool gone, the steam gone, her skin coated in heatless ash.
He was still there. But something was wrong.
His face was twisted, not in hunger, but pain. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Sand poured from it instead, coarse and black, spilling down his chest like blood.
Nora froze. Her legs wouldn’t move.
She looked down and saw veins glowing under her skin. Pale light, like desert quartz catching the sun. At first she thought it was beautiful.
Then the glow turned red.
Then black.
Her veins charred, shriveled, like the roots of something scorched from the inside. She gasped, staggered back, but the ground cracked beneath her. The dream buckled like stone under pressure.
