Still Waters

By Alyson Belle

27-year-old Jared has lived in the same little town in the Appalachian Mountains with the same people and the same traditions his entire life. Gossip travels fast. When Jared realizes he is trans, everything changes. Naming herself Claire, she tries to come out to her family and is shattered when she is rejected by everyone besides her twin sister. Her family was her entire life, and feeling she had lost everything, she jumps into the local cave pool. Hours later, she wakes up in the cave in a new body—one near identical to her sister.

Confused and soaked, she realizes her house keys are missing and turns to her business partner and life-long friend, Gabe. Together, they figure out what her next steps should be. Claire knows she should leave town. Why would she want to stay anyway? But things get complicated when Claire realizes she has feelings for Gabe. It gets even more complicated when the community starts searching for her after her car is located.

A short book packed to the brim with color, sadness, laughter, a rich cast of characters, a cultural setting, and a touch of magic, Still Waters is about love. Not only between Claire and Gabe, but between Claire and herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alyson Belle
• Release date: Aug 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005257224

Alyson Belle

Alyson Belle is a bestselling romance and erom author who has had a passion for transformation and body swap stories for as long as she can remember. She now delights in sharing her passion with the world by writing some of the sexiest stories around. With Alyson in control, your hottest fantasy ever is always just a click away...~~~ Visit my site for a FIVE FREE BOOKS including a copy of Forbidden Flirtations, a sexy, sizzling-hot story you can only get on my website! ~~~ Copy and Paste URL: http://alysonbelle.com/free-books/

Book preview

Chapter 1

I opened my eyes to see glowing blue embraced by brown.

Drip.

Then my vision cleared. I was beside the sparkling surface of a cave pool. No, the cave pool.

Drip.

The cream fabric of my t-shirt clung to my icy, stinging skin. The pads of my fingertips were crumpled and soggy. My muscles complained under the pressure of my heavy clothes as I sat up. On my next inhale, I discovered how raw my throat was and bent over in rheumy coughs. The cave smelled of filtered dirt, irritating my inflamed lungs. For those first few instants, I could only grasp my surroundings.

I shouldn't be alive, I finally thought to myself. My stomach tied as if punched when I realized how I landed here. I hadn't wanted to be alive. Hesitant, I peered back at the pond beside me. How did I even leave the water? There wasn't a shore around Mermaid Pond. The jagged edge surrounding the basin was steep—too steep to simply roll out. I pushed aside a strand of long, red hair; when did my hair grow this long?

Even if there was a shore, the sinkhole forming the pool was 126 feet deep. The rock formations underwater are an unforgiving watery labyrinth rivaling the Parisian catacombs. A few cave divers died every year, struggling to find their way out—even the most experienced. So how in the fuck did I survive?

A cruel fire of relief tore through me. I hadn't wanted to die; I just didn't know how to keep living. Mother's Romanian accent echoed in my head—the same words I heard before diving.

Jared, if you plan to continue repeating a girl's name in place of the one I gave to you in front of God, I don't want to see you. Get out of this house. My father sat on the couch, face in his palms, shaking his head so the light reflected off his house fire red hair as if asking himself where he went so wrong. Did he not ask to play catch enough? Not enough father-son hunting trips? All too ready to blame himself but simultaneously willing to toss out the rotten product of his paternal failure.

Defeated, I faced my brother Eric to silently ask for a lifeline, but he only glowered back in disgusted scorn. Rosa's What happened to listening with open hearts? protest was forgotten or ignored. It was difficult to discern, but now she cried, face to the eggshell-white wall in defeat.

What is anyone supposed to do next? I had hoped to not need a next. Before my consciousness faded in the pond, I recalled having a painful spasm of panicked regret. The memory stopped me from plunging back in under the realization I somehow lived. The entire thing had been impulsive.

I won't do anything, I told my sister two hours before resolving to drive to the pond. My cheeks suddenly scorched; I wrapped my arms around my midriff, electric tremors of shame hurtling through my chest and limbs. It stung to recollect that I lied to her.

I have something to show you later, so stay awake!

She defended me. She supported me, and I lied to her. I didn't know I was lying, but after two hours of sitting alone in the darkness, I knew I couldn't keep living a lie. It hurt too much. I couldn't live in this claustrophobic town with a family who despised me, and I was sure to the edge of death I had only one choice.

My mistake was thinking suicide always had to be planned; I had no defenses when it wasn't.

When I bent my head to my chest, I noticed my chest was much fuller than I remembered. I lifted a palm to grab what was undeniably a breast and clutched the hair I discounted a moment before. Was this a dream? Maybe I was dead and waking up in the afterlife. I stuck a palm to my face. No stubble. And why was my hand so tiny? My arms were skinny. Smaller in every area. My chest didn't feel wide enough to breathe anymore. My gasps came strained and fast. Fuck.

My junk shriveling after swimming was expected, but when I reached between my legs, I discovered not only were my balls not slammed into my stomach, there were none to slam anywhere. A smile started to crawl across my face, but the warmth pressed against my reluctance. I couldn't get carried away yet, not until I was convinced the change was permanent.

I flinched when an unusual buzzing sensation on my right shoulder zapped me. Pulling my shirt up, I saw tiny aqua-gold dots scattered around my right side. Some as small as pinpricks. A few the size of swollen blueberries. Most somewhere in between. They spanned from under my breast to my hip, dancing together into a duochromatic wave.

The skin covered by the mark felt undisturbed—a shining tattoo painted with ink artists would kill for. It was beautiful, and in any other circumstance, I'd be proud to show it off. But what was it? What was that Sherlock Holmes quote? In the absence of the probable, one must consider the impossible. Something like that. No immediate probable explanations came to mind when I gaped at the new mark. Magic. The only explanation was magic. Impossible. To make sure, I pinched my arm, verifying I could still feel. A thin pain answered.

Thoughts tangled, I scanned for any evidence of what happened. The drips falling from the cave ceiling grew suddenly louder and the shadowy corners more suspicious. Was someone watching me? Did someone do this to me? Were they a good witch or a bad witch? Fuck, were they even a witch? Standing to peer in the crystalline pond, I muttered, Mermaid? No. No, no, no. That was a town fairytale. We all knew that.

Despite being drenched, my throat pled for hydration, and I swallowed saliva in a hollow attempt to quench my thirst. Fuck answers for now; I needed to go home, but the hope dashed itself when I fumbled through my pocket to find my car keys missing. The town wasn't far, but it would be a trek in sodden clothes. I considered stripping and taking my chances running naked in the shadows. No, I wasn't sure what I looked like and wouldn't know what to say if a police officer arrested me for public indecency, so I hastily scratched that plan.

I sighed and studied the rocky protrusions descending from the cavern's ceiling. Well, best to start walking.

***

Neither moon nor sunlight highlighted the sidewalks when I rushed home. I wasn't wearing shoes; it was safe to assume the ones I had worn rested somewhere in the depths of the pond. To be honest, who could say they'd fit me anymore? Not me. My feet were daintier, and it took shuffling around to find my balance.

Baggy jeans sloshed as I walked. Clutching my arms against my chest had next to no impact on the misty chill, causing my teeth to chatter like typewriter keys. My stone cottage was approximately a fourth-mile away, but that provided little comfort. My limbs ached tight like they fought being dragged underwater by a denim Kraken. The skin on my thigh numbed to ice, even in the middle of June.

The