The days that followed were worse.
The men worked with hollow eyes, glancing at the sea as though it might rise in the shape of her. Some prayed. Others whispered bargains of their own into the foam. None slept easy.
And Peter? He was restless. Possessed.
Every night he prowled the deck, waiting. Every night the crew held their breath. And when she came again, the air itself thickened with salt and heat.
This time, they saw her clearer. Not just a shimmer—flesh, scales, and something else. Her belly already taut, glowing faintly, as if quickened with unnatural life. Too soon. Far too soon. The men knew no womb should swell that fast. Yet when Peter drove into her, the glow pulsed brighter, as though his seed struck fire in her veins.
She laughed, a wet, gurgling sound that rippled like surf over stone. "Do you feel it, my lord? Already he stirs within me. Already your heir claws at my womb."
Peter roared and took her harder, every thrust slapping brine across the planks. The ship groaned. The crew trembled. And some swore—swore—they saw something move beneath her skin. A ripple. A kick. Too strong, too early.
She threw her head back, water spilling from her lips, and her cry rolled over them like a storm surge: "More! Feed him. Drown me in you until the sea itself bows to our son."
The men broke then. Some fell to their knees, muttering prayers to Selene. Others fled below deck, clutching rosaries, knuckles white with terror. But a few—just a few—stayed. Watching. Eyes wide, lips parted, hands twitching as though they too longed to be taken by whatever she was.
And when at last Peter spilled inside her, her belly flared with blinding light, a shape pressing outward from within. Small. Too small to be born. But there. Alive. Hungry.
She kissed him, long and drowning, whispering against his lips:
"Soon."
Then she melted away again, slipping back into the black sea.
The crew stared at their captain, sweat-slick, glowing faintly with her touch. His smirk was gone. His eyes burned with something else—madness, or faith, they couldn't tell.
But one thing was certain.
She would return.
The next night, she did not come for Peter alone.
The sea boiled at the hull, lantern light shivering across the waves. When she rose, her form was clearer than ever—hair dark as kelp, skin shimmering wet, belly swollen with impossible promise. Her eyes burned pale, searching.
"Mine," Peter growled, already reaching for her. But she only smiled, fangs flashing faintly between her lips.
"Yours, yes," she purred, straddling him, sinking onto his cock with a cry that rattled the sails. "But not only yours."
Her voice rolled like tidewater, sliding through the air, curling into every man's ear. The crew staggered, hands trembling, cocks hardening beneath rough trousers. Some tried to fight it, muttering prayers, gripping the rail. Others swayed forward helplessly, breath quick and ragged.
She moaned loud enough to drown the waves. "Do you feel me, my sweet sailors? Every thrust he gives me is for you as well. Every drop he spills inside me feeds not only my womb—but yours."
And then they saw it.
Her glow stretched. Threads of light uncoiled from her womb, snaking across the deck, brushing the men's boots. Where it touched, their eyes rolled back, mouths opening on gasps. One dropped his knife. Another clawed at his shirt, chest heaving, cock straining visibly.
Peter slammed into her harder, sweat dripping, growl shaking the air. But her laughter wasn't just for him. She reached out, nails black and gleaming, and beckoned one of the crew.
"Come," she whispered. "Taste me."
The sailor stumbled forward, falling to his knees beside them. Her hand caught the back of his neck, and she pulled him down between her breasts, her glow spilling over his face like seawater. He moaned, shuddered, and then—started licking, worshiping, as Peter drove into her from below.
The others broke. Some tore at their belts. Some fell to their knees, stroking themselves, staring with glazed eyes as if she had slipped into their very blood. The ship reeked of sweat, salt, and sex.
She moaned again, louder, belly flaring brighter with each climax Peter forced from her. But this time, her glow spread wider, wrapping the crew in its web. Every man who spilled himself on the deck swore afterward that he saw his seed vanish—pulled across the planks into her light.
When at last she screamed, convulsing around Peter's cock, the whole ship seemed to rock with her pleasure. The men collapsed where they stood, panting, drained.
She kissed Peter deeply, eyes glinting as she whispered for all to hear:
"Now he is not just yours. He is theirs. My womb carries the seed of every soul aboard this ship."
And then she was gone again, dissolving into foam.
The deck stank of sex and fear. The crew lay trembling, staring at their captain. None dared speak. None dared move.
But every man knew the truth—
They were all bound to her now.
By the fourth night, none of them slept.
Every creak of the hull, every lap of water against the timbers made the men stiffen, hearts racing, cocks already stirring in anticipation—or terror.
And when she rose again, the sea steaming around her glowing form, they didn't just see her. They ached for her.
Peter had her first, as always—her body sliding over him, belly swollen tighter, glowing brighter. But when her voice poured across the deck like smoke, whispering, moaning, commanding—every man's knees weakened.
"Come," she crooned, head tipped back, Peter's cock pounding into her as she beckoned them with dripping fingers. "All of you. Feed me. Feed him."
The men hesitated. Just a breath. Just a heartbeat. But then one stumbled forward, then another, until the deck was alive with bodies kneeling, reaching, hands trembling as they touched her glowing skin.
Some kissed her thighs as Peter drove into her from behind. Others buried their faces between her breasts, drinking the brine that dripped from her. A few, too far gone, tore open their trousers and spilled themselves openly onto the deck—moaning as their seed slid across the planks and vanished into her glow.
And all the while, she laughed. Low, rich, inhuman.
"Yes," she hissed, rocking harder, nails raking down Peter's back. "Every drop makes him stronger. Every offering binds you tighter. You are mine. All of you. My womb is your tomb."
The words froze some of them—lips trembling, eyes wide with sudden horror. But even as terror gripped them, their cocks ached harder, spilling again, betraying their fear with lust they couldn't resist.
Peter roared, driving her down onto the deck, his thrusts thunderous, sweat and salt flying. Her belly pulsed with light, swelling larger still, and the men gasped as something moved inside her. Not the weak flutter of an infant—no. This was violent. A claw pressing outward. A spine arching beneath her skin.
"See him," she cried, her glow flaring so bright the men shielded their eyes. "Your son. Your lord. Your doom."
When she came, the ship rocked like a storm had struck it. Every man who touched her cried out, climax tearing through them against their will. And they felt it—each drop of their essence stolen, drawn into her womb, feeding the thing that writhed inside.
Then, as always, she was gone. Melted back into sea-foam, belly's glow sinking into the waves.
The deck lay soaked, stinking of sweat and brine. The men collapsed where they'd fallen—trembling, drained, eyes wild with both longing and dread. Some muttered prayers through cracked lips. Others licked their fingers, dazed, as though savoring the last taste of her.
Peter stood alone, chest heaving, cock still slick with her wetness, eyes burning brighter than ever. He looked at his men and smiled darkly.
"She will come again," he said. "And when she does—you will give her what she asks. Because now… you are hers, as much as I am."
No one answered.
But in their hollow eyes, the truth was clear.
They feared her.
They hated her.
And yet—they hungered for her return.