Around him, they began to rise.
Lucy first, her body arched like a cat's as she stretched, her breasts rising with her breath.
Her eyes found his, sultry and warm. Then Emma, who pressed a kiss to his shoulder before settling beside him, her fingers drawing lazy circles on his thigh.
Layla sat cross-legged nearby, brushing her hair with her fingers, still glowing from within. Rose, of course, stood in the shadows at the edge of the clearing, watching him with that same knowing smile, like she was seeing a future only she understood.
The others stirred slowly, no rush, no urgency. Naked, radiant, theirs was the movement of priestesses in a temple no one had named, conducting a ritual older than memory.
Sophie was last to rise.
She walked toward Jude with deliberate steps, her gaze unreadable.
He stood as she reached him.
"I'm still me," she said softly.
"I know," he replied.
"But I feel it now. Whatever it is. That thing you touched. That we all touched."
