She sat in a chair woven of birch branches and strands of lights, brooding. Her knees were tucked under her chin as she remembered earlier, the hours earlier, his lips on her skin, his firm embrace, his presence, after so, so long...and his words, murmuring that he could sense her hunger, he could tell how long it had been since she fed...
Briefly, she resented this, blinking in a rush of sudden emotion, before she paused, and truly thought that through. And...she sighed. Because, of course, why would someone so close to her heart not know her? How could she so foolishly dismiss the insight of the first one who'd ever inherited her gift, or curse, whatever it was in truth...and who knew the shape and flavor of that particular hunger, himself?
How, indeed.
She shook her head at herself, tongue clucking. She'd grown so accustomed to being the only one, arrogant, perhaps, with that hunger, red of eye and long of tooth, her constant companion. She'd grown used to its presence, always a few steps behind, always aware of the gnawing in her belly, the desire to grow her fangs and...just...bite.
But she also refused to just use people for fodder. And she'd gotten fairly good at ways to restrain the need--she'd grown quite fond of arsenic tea, and there was a certain extract made from Destroying Angels and manchineel, though it was difficult to produce. There was one other thing she could do in times of great duress, but...she preferred not to think about it.
She sighed again. Perhaps an apology was due him, for so mistakenly thinking she could simply turn aside his innate understanding, her own hunger, concentrating on his...but again, habit, custom, arrogance, she saw it now. She fed him and was, somewhat, fed herself; he fed her, and felt the same. It wasn't just the sweet red on the lips, it was the trail of entwining energy that came with it. That trail of energy, the cord that bound them together, reinforced with every touch, every kiss, every bite.
She wrinkled her nose. Yes. She definitely owned her love an apology. She went into the treehouse, hunting for her writing desk, a spare pen, and the Gearhaven seal to press into the envelope after. At least the garden was close to done...
No comments:
Post a Comment