SLEEPBOUND

I can’t move.

But God, I don’t want to.

There’s weight above me—hot and heavy, pressing me deep into the mattress. A mouth finds the base of my throat, searing a path up to my ear with slow, devastating licks. I shudder, helpless, pinned by the heat of him. His fingers drag down my ribs like he’s memorizing the architecture of my bones. My breath catches, chest rising but not escaping.

I’m spread open, bare and begging, but I didn’t undress. I don’t even remember crawling into bed. I’m still in the same room—the same rented attic flat in a town whose name still feels foreign in my mouth. But this… this isn’t real, is it?

The man—no, the thing—between my legs slides into me with a slow, unforgiving thrust. I gasp, my body jerking upward, needing more, taking more. It’s like he’s splitting me apart from the inside, every inch of him perfectly shaped to ruin me. I can’t see him, only feel—the graze of fangs at my collarbone, the drag of long nails down my thighs, the searing kiss of heat where he stretches me.

And I love it.

I should be afraid. I’m paralyzed. This has all the flavor of a nightmare. But every stroke of him inside me makes the fear melt into liquid pleasure.

I can’t move.

I can’t scream.

And I don’t want it to stop.

His hand wraps around my throat, not choking, just claiming. Holding me still while he pushes deeper. I arch against him, a silent cry building in my throat. He lowers his mouth to my ear. His voice is a gravel-coal whisper:

“Mine.”

That single word undoes me.

I come hard—writhing, moaning without a voice, muscles clenching around him like I can hold him inside me forever. My toes curl. My spine bows. My skin is damp with sweat, and yet, I’m freezing.

He doesn’t stop.

He fucks me through it, long and slow, like he’s branding me.

And then—

Nothing.

I bolt upright, gasping. The air is stale and thick with the smell of old wood and lavender detergent. Morning sunlight filters in through the gauzy white curtains, too gentle, too real. My chest rises and falls as I scan the room—my tiny attic flat above a flower shop on the edge of town. Nothing’s disturbed. No clothes flung. No claw marks.

Only me.

Alone.

Wet.

I blink at the ceiling. My heartbeat drums in my ears. My thighs are slick with arousal—still. I reach down before I can stop myself, fingers brushing over sensitive flesh. Still aching. Still swollen.

What the hell?

I force myself to sit up. My nightdress clings to my skin like second flesh. I never wear this one—it’s too sheer, the hem too short, the neckline too daring. But I’m wearing it now. And I have no memory of putting it on.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My knees shake as they meet the cool wooden floorboards. Sunlight spills over the windowsill, dancing off the chipped blue paint of my vanity mirror. I catch my reflection—wild curls, flushed skin, lips parted like I’ve just been kissed senseless.

I touch my throat.

There, just under my jaw—two faint impressions.

Teeth?

I trace them with my fingertip. They vanish under pressure, but the ghost of sensation lingers. I close my eyes.

His voice echoes in the silence:

“Mine.”

A full-body shiver wracks me.

Ira Morven, twenty-eight, registered trauma nurse.

Currently residing in a sleepy European town so small, Google Maps practically apologizes when you search for it. I moved here six weeks ago for a fresh start—a rural community clinic job, slower pace, air that smelled like pine and petrichor. It was supposed to be peace.

Not sex dreams that feel more real than anything I’ve had awake.

I pad to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and breathe. I’ve handled code blues and roadside amputations. I’ve held men together with gauze and grit while waiting for medivac. I don’t rattle.

But this—

This has me shaken.

I lean on the sink, trying to ground myself in the mundane. The cracked porcelain. The half-used tube of charcoal toothpaste. The faint lavender scent rising from the dried bouquet on the windowsill.

And still, behind my eyes—

His touch.

His voice.

His cock, still stretching me in memory.

I press my thighs together.

It doesn’t help.

Downstairs, the flower shop is closed on Sundays, so the street is quieter than usual. I pull on jeans and a loose jumper, throw my curls into a half-hearted bun, and head out. Maybe a walk. Maybe a coffee. Maybe some cold air to remind me I’m alive and not losing my damn mind.

The town square is postcard-perfect: cobblestones, pastel facades, old women selling crocheted tea cozies and candied almonds. Everyone knows everyone. No one knows me.

A small sign on the corner catches my eye: Café Sova. I’ve passed it before, but never gone in. Something about the name—"Sova" means owl in several languages—has always made me hesitate.

But today, I’m curious.

The bell above the door jingles softly as I step inside. The scent hits me first: cinnamon, espresso, something darker underneath. The place is warm and dimly lit, all wooden beams and stained glass and soft chairs meant for lingering.

And then I see him.

Behind the counter.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Soft brown hair that curls at the ends. Pale hands wrapped around a steaming mug.

He looks up.

Our eyes meet.

And for a moment, the world tilts.

I know him.

But I don’t. Perhaps he's got one of those familiar faces that everyone seems to know.

He blinks slowly, then smiles—not wide, but soft, like he’s seeing something he’s been waiting for.

“Morning,” he says, voice gentle. “You’re new.”

I try to smile back. “Yeah. Just moved in across from the florist.”

He nods. “I know the flat. Smells like roses and rain.”

I hesitate, caught in that voice. My stomach drops. My skin prickles.

“Have we…umm...met?”

He tilts his head, thoughtful. “I don’t think so. But I'm bad at remembering faces so...”

"Yeah, I'm not the beauty queen either." I laugh!

He chuckles. “What can I get you?”

I open my mouth. Close it. My brain forgets every drink I’ve ever liked. “Something strong.”

“Coming right up,” he says, turning to the machine.

His name tag reads: Marael.

Marael.

I try it on my tongue. Silently. A whisper.

It doesn’t feel new. Who is he?