She poured the bucket of dirty water into the sink. She had her own rituals to perform. Domestic ones, scrub the wall and
clean the stove and mop the floor, mundane, dirty chores intended to return things to the way they were before, to restore a bit
of order, a layer of protection, a measure of control to her life.
“We are not so different, you and I . ”
She sighed. It wasn‟t that simple. Even if you believed.
She heard the slam of a car door as Dylan left. Morgan still stood in the front yard, eyeing the sky like a man debating
whether or not to mow the lawn before a rain. What was he doing out there alone? She glanced at the clock. Not even nine, the
second feature hadn‟t even started, plenty of time to wash the smoke from her hair before Dylan brought her children home.
Shower, shampoo, condition, moisturize. More rituals, female and familiar.
By the time she padded from the bathroom, the light was fading, the night sliding in on a wave of clouds. Her skin felt
scalded and tender from her shower. The towel rasped against her breasts. She cocked her head, listening to rain spatter against
the glass, and walked to her bedroom window. Restless. Yearning. Confused.
He was there, Morgan, alone in the overgrown yard, his head flung back to the pouring rain, his palms turned open to the
sky. Her lips parted in longing and in wonder. Power flashed around him like lightning, power and sex. Rain ran in rivulets
down his strong face, plastered his hair to his skull, molded his wet white shirt to his body. He was beautiful, the most
beautiful man she‟d ever seen, his pale skin glowing in the dusk, a marble garden god come to life, primal, elemental.
Not-a-human , not-a-human , beat her heart.
She tightened her towel around her. She‟d never liked the myths in school about the old gods descending to earth to satisfy
their lusts with the daughters of men. She‟d always felt slightly sorry for those women they had sex with, who got carried
away by bulls or swans and ended up with wars and pregnancies and eternal punishment, got turned into trees or nightingales.
No Disney studio transformations from Beast to Prince, no happy endings in those stories.
Nothing good ever came from sleeping with a god. She didn‟t need that kind of fantasy in her life. That kind of grief. She‟d
stick to reality, thank you very much, no matter how limited.
Or lonely.
He looked up and saw her, and her heart stumbled, and it was just the two of them, caught in the storm and the twilight,
caught in the moment, her wet from her shower, him wet from the rain. His eyes darkened with everything she was feeling,
desire and regret, surprise and confusion, and whatever else was the fairy tale, this was real, the emotion was real, she would
never get over him this time.
This time, she vowed, he would never get over her.
Still holding his gaze through the window, she took a step back and dropped the towel.
Her image burned his retinas, Elizabeth naked with the light behind her, her strong calm face, her strong soft body, breasts,
belly, thighs.
Her eyes, dark with invitation.
Morgan‟s blood surged. He lunged up the stairs, his heart pumping, his head swimming.
The door to her room was open. A yellow square of lamplight spilled onto the rug in the hall. He bared his teeth, electric
pinpricks racing over his skin, the gale crackling, collecting, inside and out.
He stalked into her room. He had a vague impression of order and softness—tall, dark furniture, white, billowing curtains,
a thick white comforter on the bed—but all he really saw was Elizabeth silhouetted against the rain, her damp hair dark against
her bare shoulders, her towel crumpled at her feet. Need crashed through him bright as lightning. He wanted her. He had never
wanted a woman so much.
And what he wanted, he took.
He strode across the room to her, ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders and lightly down to her breasts, watched the
storm swirl in her face and in her eyes. The coolness of his palms made her skin prickle. She tilted her head back, exposing the
strong, lovely line of her throat. He wanted to bite her right there, at the tender join of shoulder and neck, wanted to feel her
tremble, hear her moan.
Her heart raced under his hand. She wanted this. Accepted him. Even knowing what he was, even after she‟d been
threatened and attacked, she welcomed him.
Unless . . .