A shiver traced its way down Myra's spine at Freya's words, the implied intimacy sending a fresh wave of apprehension through her. The casual dismissal of her clothing, framed as a facilitator for both knowledge and the "exchange of life essence," underscored the inherent imbalance of their situation.
Yet, the image of her ailing grandmother, her weakening breath and fading smile, fueled Myra's resolve.
She nodded slowly, her emerald eyes meeting Freya's with a mixture of nervousness and a stark determination. The earlier awkwardness of the previous night returned, amplified by the deliberate nature of Freya's request.
This was no longer a spur-of-the-moment offering; it was a calculated exchange, and the price of the knowledge was becoming increasingly clear.
With a deep breath, Myra began to unbutton her coat once more, her fingers moving with a hesitant reluctance. The morning sunlight streaming through the window seemed to amplify her vulnerability, casting her in a stark and revealing light.
The linen dress beneath suddenly felt thin and inadequate, offering little protection against Freya's intense gaze and the anticipation of her touch.
As the coat fell to the floor, Myra's heart began to pound against her ribs, the rhythm echoing the frantic beat from the night before.
The shop, filled with its silent witnesses of forgotten eras, seemed to hold its breath, the atmosphere thick with anticipation. Despite her growing unease, Myra knew she had made a commitment, a pact born of love and desperation.
For her grandmother's sake, she would endure this unsettling intimacy, offer her blood once more, and hope that the ancient wisdom contained within the book could bring healing to her beloved village elder.
The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with a strange and potentially dangerous connection, but Myra knew she had to see it through.
As Myra's coat slipped from her shoulders, revealing the delicate line of her neck, Freya's gaze was immediately drawn to the faint, purplish marks still visible on her skin.
The remnants of last night's feeding were a stark reminder of their connection, a subtle bruising that spoke of the intimacy they had shared. A strange possessiveness flickered within Freya as she observed the lingering evidence of her touch.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Freya leaned in, her cool breath ghosting over Myra's skin. Her tongue traced the edges of the still-tender bite marks, a gesture that was both possessive and a prelude to the act about to be repeated.
A shiver ran through Myra at the contact, a familiar mix of apprehension and a strange undercurrent she couldn't quite decipher.
Drawing back slightly, Freya's crimson eyes met Myra's, a question lingering in their depths. "The marks from last night are still… present," she murmured, her voice a low, resonant hum.
"Where would you prefer I… partake this time, little Myra? The skin there may still be sensitive."
It wasn't a question of genuine concern for Myra's comfort, but rather a pragmatic acknowledgment of the physical reality of their feeding.
It was also a subtle assertion of control, a reminder that Myra, despite her willingness, was still subject to Freya's needs. The choice of where she would be bitten was a small concession, perhaps, but one that acknowledged Myra's agency in this unusual exchange.
Freya leaned in, her canines once again finding purchase against the delicate skin of Myra's neck, this time on the untouched side.
The familiar sting pierced through the surface, and the flow of warm, vital blood began anew. Yet, as she drank, a subtle unease stirred within Freya. The initial satisfaction of sating her hunger seemed elusive this time. A persistent gnawing remained, a hollowness that Myra's offering, though potent, wasn't fully filling.
A flicker of confusion crossed Freya's mind. Had her hunger grown stronger? Or was there something else at play? The unique sweetness of Myra's blood was still there, the faint, intriguing resonance that had stirred unexpected sensations the night before.
But tonight, it felt almost… insufficient. A primal instinct urged her to drink more, to draw deeper, but a flicker of something akin to concern, an emotion she rarely entertained for her food source, stayed her hand.
She could feel the subtle shift in Myra's body – the slight tremor in her limbs, the shallowing of her breath. The vibrant life force that had pulsed so strongly beneath her lips was beginning to ebb.
Freya, despite her predatory nature, was acutely aware of the delicate balance. To drain too much would weaken Myra, perhaps even endanger her, and that was not her intention. Her goal was sustenance for knowledge, not the outright destruction of her willing participant.
A sense of restraint, unusual for her when feeding, settled upon Freya. The intoxicating pull of Myra's blood was strong, but the image of the young woman's earnest face, her desperate plea for her grandmother, lingered in her thoughts.
This was not just about satisfying her own needs; it was part of an exchange, a fragile alliance forged out of desperation and a shared, albeit different, desire for knowledge and healing.
With a reluctant sigh, Freya pulled back, the coppery tang of blood still fresh on her tongue. The persistent hunger remained, a subtle ache that she would have to ignore for now. Myra needed her strength. The translation of the ancient book was the priority, the fulfillment of her end of their unusual bargain.
Looking down at Myra, whose head rested against the back of the chair, her skin a shade paler than before, Freya knew she had to stop.
The line between sustenance and depletion was a delicate one, and she would not cross it. The translation could wait; Myra's well-being, for the sake of their continued exchange, could not.
The ancient predator within her grudgingly yielded to a nascent sense of… responsibility.