They said the forest wasn’t real.
That it only appeared to women who dreamed with their thighs clenched and their mouths half-open in the dark. That it waited—alive, ancient, dripping with need—for the kind of girl who woke soaked and unsatisfied, who longed for more than hands could offer.
Lira had always dreamed like that.
She wasn’t surprised when the mist came for her.
It slid beneath her bedroom window like a lover’s breath, warm and thick, curling around her bare ankles as she stood by the sill in nothing but a thin cotton slip—wet from a dream she could only half-remember. In the haze, she swore she saw figures watching. Tall. Shadowed. Waiting.
Her body moved before her mind caught up. She stepped outside.
The forest wrapped around her like silk, humid and hungry. Every inch of her skin felt watched. The deeper she walked, the more her pulse throbbed—not in fear, but want. Her nipples peaked through the slip, tight from the chill and the presence. Something was there. Close.
A branch caressed the curve of her thigh. It lingered.
She gasped—but didn’t pull away.
It wasn’t just a tree. It was aware. Testing her. Drawing a slow, invisible path up her leg, until her thighs trembled. Another touch—across her lower back. Another—her throat. Her body sang in response, aching, open, the slip clinging to her like a soaked invitation.
And then, they emerged.
Three of them.