Lina had become a woman no one noticed.
Not even herself.
She moved through the days like a figure in a painting—graceful, beautiful, still. Her honey-blonde hair was always tied back too tightly, her pale hands forever busy kneading dough or folding shirts, and her lips hadn't parted in laughter since the spring before last. Her husband, Rolan, was good to her in the way furniture was good: solid, predictable, and utterly indifferent. He kissed her cheek in the mornings. He never strayed. But his eyes never truly saw her, and his touch never reached where she needed it most.
There were nights she touched herself in the bath, hand slipping between her thighs, imagining someone else—anyone else—but guilt choked her climax before it could ever come.
She wasn't the first woman in the village to feel it. That… pull. That ache that began in the breastbone and curled lower. The whisper of something forgotten, something wild. The old women called it restlessness. The younger ones said nothing at all, afraid to admit they'd caught themselves staring out at the forest longer than they should.
But Lina… Lina listened.
They said the forest was cursed.
That women who entered never returned.
That they were taken.
But no one could say by whom. Or what. Only that their faces lingered in dreams long after their bodies were gone.
Lina waited until the new moon. Until the stars blinked like watchful eyes and her husband's breath had deepened in sleep. She didn't leave a note. She didn't need to. The pull was too strong, and her heart beat too loud to hear reason.
Barefoot, she stepped between the trees.
---
The forest welcomed her.
It was thick with perfume—rich, earthy, sweet with something half-rotten and half-blossomed. The moss curled around her toes, soft as fur, and the air was wet like a lover's breath. Fog drifted low to the ground like fingers dragging through grass. Every sound—the rustle of leaves, the drip of dew—seemed alive. A heartbeat thrummed in the soil.
And then she saw him.
He stood in the clearing like he had always been there.
Tall. Broad-chested. Barefoot. Naked to the waist, wearing nothing but loose black pants that clung low to sharp hipbones. His skin gleamed with the golden sheen of sweat, and his dark hair was tousled like he'd just woken from a lover's bed.
But it was his eyes that shattered her.
Green, but not of this earth—brilliant emerald shot through with gold, glowing faintly, like fireflies trapped behind glass. They pierced her, devoured her. And his lips—God, those lips—curved into a smile so intimate it felt like a kiss.
"Lina," he said.
She stopped breathing.
His voice was honey poured over coals. Warm. Dangerous.
"How do you know my name?" she asked, but it came out breathless, more plea than question.
"I know everything you ache for," he murmured. "I've waited so long for you."
He stepped forward. She didn't move. Couldn't.
He cupped her cheek, his palm calloused and warm. The heat of his touch spread through her like spilled wine—down her neck, into her chest, tightening her nipples beneath her thin shift. Her thighs pressed together of their own accord.
"You're so tired," he whispered. "So hungry."
Tears welled in her eyes. Not from fear. From recognition. She was hungry. For him. For this.
"I want to feel again," she said, her voice trembling.
He leaned in, lips grazing her ear. "I'll make you feel everything."
---
The kiss broke her.
It started as a brush, then deepened, mouth to mouth, breath to breath, until she couldn't remember where she ended and he began. His tongue teased hers in slow, sinuous motions, exploring her like a map only he could read. Her knees buckled.
He caught her easily, lifting her into his arms. His strength made her gasp—he held her as if she weighed nothing, like she was meant to be carried.
He brought her to a willow tree.
Its long silver branches hung like curtains around them, a veil of shimmering leaves. The ground beneath was a bed of moss so thick it cradled her like skin. The air was hot here, thick with floral musk and something darker—like spice and sweat and sex.
He laid her down and knelt over her, straddling her body with slow reverence. Her shift clung to her curves, damp with the mist—and desire.
With agonizing care, he peeled it off.
Every inch of skin he revealed, he kissed. Slowly. From her collarbone, down the swell of her breasts, his mouth worshipped her. His tongue circled one nipple, then the other, and her back arched, her moan rising sharp and high into the trees. He licked her there until her hands trembled in his hair, pulling, desperate.
Then he moved lower.
Lower.
His mouth kissed her belly, the crease of her hip, and finally—
He opened her.
She was glistening with need. The cool night air licked her bare slit as he spread her thighs wide and looked upon her like she was sacred.
"I've dreamed of tasting you," he growled.
And then his tongue was on her.
Lina screamed.
He licked her in slow, luxurious strokes, flicking, curling, pressing his lips around her clit like it was his only purpose. She writhed under him, gasping, begging, her fingers clawing into the moss. Every motion of his tongue sent shocks through her, deeper and hotter.
Then his fingers joined—slipping inside her, two at first, then three, stretching her gently. Curling. Hitting that spot. That place. That core.
She shattered.
Her orgasm ripped through her like a storm, her body seizing, her thighs closing around his head, her voice echoing in feral moans. But he didn't stop. He kept licking, sucking, drawing her into another climax before the first had finished.
And again.
And again.
Each time she came, a whisper left her lips that she didn't understand.
A word.
A name.
A piece of herself.
She didn't notice it slipping away.
All she knew was him.
When he entered her, finally, thick and hot and perfect, she wept. From relief. From pleasure.
From something deeper.
He filled her, thrust into her with a rhythm ancient as the moon. The willow branches shivered above them like voyeurs. His hands gripped her thighs. His mouth sucked at her neck. She came around him, walls fluttering, hips rising to meet him, again and again, until the world vanished in waves of ecstasy.
She forgot her wedding night.
Then her wedding.
Then her name.
All that remained was the trembling pleasure of his body inside hers and the way his voice whispered her ruin with every stroke.
"Mine," he growled into her throat.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yours."
---
They never found Lina.
Only a smear of moss flattened beneath a willow and a small, round pearl—once sewn into the bodice of her dress.
Some say her moans echo when the wind passes through the branches.
Some say the willow weeps.
But others… they smile. Because now, Lina is always in bloom.