Myra’s eyelids fluttered open, her gaze soft and unfocused for a moment as she slowly returned to consciousness. The dim light filtering through the curtains of Freya’s chamber gradually sharpened her senses. She felt a lingering warmth, a pleasant nguor that was a stark contrast to the chill she had experienced earlier.
As her mind cleared, she became aware of the soft velvet beneath her and the gentle, cool weight of an arm draped protectively around her shoulders. Turning her head slowly, she saw Freya lying beside her, her crimson eyes open and watching her with an unreadable intensity. A faint blush touched Myra’s cheeks as she recalled the strange and intense events that had preceded her sleep. The tingling heat, the unexpected arousal, the raw hunger in Freya’s gaze, and the subsequent, almost brutal, feeding – it all flooded back in a confusing rush.
She looked at Freya, a silent question in her emerald eyes. There was a lingering tenderness in the way Freya held her, but also a deep pensiveness in her expression that Myra couldn’t quite decipher. The air between them felt charged, the unspoken experiences of the night hanging heavy in the quiet room.
Freya’s intense gaze softened slightly as she saw Myra’s eyes flutter open. A silent acknowledgment passed between them, a shared awareness of the unusual intimacy they had just experienced. The lingering tension of the previous night, the raw hunger and the unexpected arousal, seemed to hang in the air, a palpable undercurrent beneath the quiet stillness of the room.
“You are awake,” Freya murmured, her voice low and resonant, careful not to break the peaceful atmosphere. Her arm remained gently around Myra, a gesture that felt surprisingly natural, even to herself. She continued to observe Myra, her crimson eyes searching for any lingering signs of weakness or discomfort, but also perhaps seeking something more, a comprehension of the strange bond that seemed to be forming between them.
Freya’s gaze remained soft yet searching. “Myra,” she began, her voice ced with a genuine concern, “… my hunger took hold with more force than I intended. I need to know… did I hurt you? Beyond the initial… act?” Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on Myra’s shoulder, a silent plea for honesty.
Myra met Freya’s gaze, the memory of the sharp sting and the subsequent forceful drawing of blood still vivid. Yet, alongside that memory was the undeniable recollection of the strange pleasure, the overwhelming sensitivity, and the unexpected comfort she had found in Freya’s arms.
A small, almost hesitant smile touched Myra’s lips. “You were… intense,” she admitted, a slight flush rising on her cheeks. “It wasn’t gentle. But… no, Freya, you didn’t truly hurt me. Not in a way that… matters.”
She paused, considering her words carefully. “I wouldn’t have asked you to bite me again, even after feeling lightheaded, if I truly believed you intended to harm me. There’s… a trust there, Freya. A strange, complicated trust, perhaps, but it’s there.” Her emerald eyes held Freya’s, conveying a sincerity that was both disarming and profound. “So, no. You didn’t hurt me in a way that matters.”
A quiet understanding settled between them, the unspoken acknowledgment of their unusual and deepening connection hanging in the air. Freya’s grip on Myra’s shoulder rexed, and a sense of relief seemed to wash over her features.
“Then,” Freya said softly, a hint of her earlier gentle amusement returning, “perhaps some sustenance of a less… direct nature is in order.” She rose gracefully from the bed and moved to the nearby shelf, where the small, intricately carved wooden box sat untouched.
Turning back to Myra, she presented the honey cake. “You brought this for me, Myra. And while my own hunger may be sated for the time being, I have a feeling a mortal body that has recently shared its life force could use some… traditional replenishment.”
Myra watched her, a faint smile gracing her lips. She reached out and took the honey cake, the sweet aroma filling her nostrils. Taking a bite, the rich, sugary taste was surprisingly comforting. As she chewed, a thought flickered through her mind, a touch of wry amusement. Here I am, eating the cake I bought… that I thought she might like. It seems I was the one who needed it after all. The realization was not lost on her, a subtle reminder of the complexities and often ironic turns of their unusual retionship.
With the honey cake providing a much-needed boost of energy, Myra felt a sense of normalcy returning. The lingering dizziness had subsided, and the color had returned to her cheeks. It was time to return to her own life, to the worried embrace of her grandmother.
“Thank you, Freya,” Myra said, rising from the bed and gathering her clothes. “For everything. For the knowledge, for… everything else.” There was a depth of unspoken understanding in her words, a quiet acknowledgment of the strange intimacy they had shared.
As she dressed, the soreness in her breasts and the faint pricking pain in her neck served as tangible reminders of the events. It was a physical echo of a connection that had been both unsettling and strangely exhirating.
