As Freya's fangs pierced her skin a moment ago, the familiar sting was quickly followed by that strange, unsettling warmth that bloomed through Myra's veins.
But this time, something felt subtly different. A faint tingling sensation, not entirely unpleasant, spread from the point of contact, a peculiar undercurrent beneath the taking of her blood. It was an odd, almost electric feeling that resonated through her senses, a surprising flicker of something akin to pleasure amidst the vulnerability of the act.
The sensation was unexpected and undeniably potent, stirring a confusing mix of reactions within Myra. Her breath hitched, and an involuntary shiver ran through her body.
Just as the tingling intensified, a sudden cessation of pressure startled her. Freya had abruptly stopped feeding.
Myra's eyelids fluttered open, her emerald eyes, still slightly hazy, focusing on Freya.
The vampire's expression was unreadable, a strange mixture of surprise and something akin to… contemplation? Myra couldn't quite decipher the look in those crimson depths. A rush of confusion washed over her. Why had Freya stopped so suddenly? Had she had enough? Was something wrong?
The lingering tingling sensation, coupled with the surprising cessation of the feeding, left Myra feeling strangely… unfulfilled.
The initial apprehension had been replaced by a bizarre sense of longing for the continuation of that strange, pleasurable thrum that had begun to awaken within her.
It was a confusing and undeniably perverse reaction to the very act of her blood being drawn.
Driven by this unexpected desire and perhaps a misguided understanding of their arrangement, Myra's hands moved almost instinctively. She reached out, her fingers closing around Freya's arms, her grip surprisingly firm despite her slightly weakened state.
Pulling the vampire closer, she nestled her head against Freya's chest, her voice a soft murmur against the cool skin.
"The book…" Myra said, her breath warm against Freya's garment, "it will take time to translate, won't it? Many days, perhaps even weeks." A strange sense of boldness, fueled by the peculiar pleasure she had just experienced, surged through her.
"You should… you should drink more, Freya. So that you have the strength to help me. So that you will… want to stay and translate it all."
Her grip tightened slightly, an almost desperate plea in her touch. The lingering sensations, the strange allure of Freya's presence, and the overwhelming desire to secure her help for her grandmother all coalesced into this impulsive act.
In that moment, Myra's fear seemed to recede, replaced by a confusing blend of gratitude, a burgeoning and unsettling attraction, and a fierce determination to ensure Freya's continued assistance, even if it meant offering more of herself than she had initially intended.
The dynamic between them had shifted once more, tilting into a territory neither of them had fully anticipated.
Freya froze, the unexpected contact sending a jolt through her that had nothing to do with the act of feeding. Myra's hands gripping her arms, the warmth of her breath against her chest, the softly spoken words urging her to continue – it was a sensory overload that momentarily shattered her carefully constructed composure.
For centuries, feeding had been a purely functional act, a necessary means of survival. The physical intimacy involved was a mere byproduct, never a source of… this.
A rare stutter escaped her lips, a testament to her sudden disorientation. "M-Myra," Freya began, her voice a barely audible whisper, a stark contrast to its usual resonant quality. Her crimson eyes widened slightly, a mixture of surprise and something akin to bewilderment reflected within their depths.
She looked down at the top of Myra's obsidian black hair nestled against her chest, the unexpected warmth seeping through her cool garments.
The sensation of Myra's touch, the almost innocent yet undeniably intimate embrace, was unsettlingly pleasant. It stirred a long-dormant part of her, a whisper of connection that she had believed long silenced by the weight of her immortal existence. The invitation to continue feeding, coupled with the implied desire for her presence and assistance, was utterly confounding.
"I…" Freya stammered again, struggling to regain her usual control. "I am… satiated enough for now. Taking too much… it would weaken you." Her words felt clumsy, inadequate to express the chaotic whirlwind of sensations and thoughts swirling within her. The primal urge to feed warred with the unfamiliar stirring of… something else.
The earnestness in Myra's voice, the trust implicit in her touch, was disarming. It chipped away at the carefully constructed walls around Freya's heart, allowing a sliver of something akin to… affection? No, not affection. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe something far more dangerous, a recognition of a connection that transcended the simple exchange of blood for knowledge.
"This transcribing…" Freya finally managed, her voice regaining a measure of its usual steadiness, though still carrying a faint tremor. "Yes, it will take time. But your well-being is… also important."
"We can… we can proceed slowly. There is no need to rush… the feeding." Her gaze drifted down to Myra's hands still gripping her arms, a strange reluctance to break the contact warring with the ingrained instinct to maintain a necessary distance.
This mortal, this willing offering, was proving to be far more disruptive to her existence than Freya could have ever imagined.