I run the sponge higher, across her sternum. One deeper cut earns a sharper reaction. Bright sapphire eyes are greeted with steam and dim candlelight.
She furrows her brows, trying to sit up.
I press her back down gently, my chin holding her in place. I keep the sponge pressed against her chest.
“Relax, Millie. I’m just cleaning you. If you can do it, I’ll stop, but you are pretty hurt.”
She hesitates, considering my words. I feel the debate inside her. Then she exhales, sinking back into me. She must’ve been convinced my option was the better.
I continue. Her body tenses and trembles under my touch as I clear more debris from her body, piece by piece.
She’s still not healing. It’s the collar.
I could take it off, but I don’t trust that she won’t retaliate the second she’s strong enough.
She’s a blood witch. And I know exactly what that means. I know how to make her heal.
“You need to feed.”
I run the sponge back down to her stomach, wiping away the last traces of grime from her creamy skin.
“I’m fine,” she croaks hoarsely, her voice shredded by the collar and too many screams.
“We clearly define that word differently.”
She doesn’t answer. Her exhaustion has dulled the sharpness of her bite.
I reach out and take a surgical blade from the stool next to me. I stop washing and turn my hand palm up.
“Cage, what are you doing?”
Her voice sharpens as I feel her spine bracing against me. She tries to sit up again.
I slice a clean line down my forearm. The pain is quick and sharp, just a light sting, really.
Her next breath catches, and she freezes.
That’s my girl.
“Feed,” I command, pressing the wound to her lips.
She shoves my arm away with what little strength she has left.
“You’re no use to anyone when you’re half dead and bleeding. You’re going to feed.” I overpower her easily in this state, bringing my arm back to her mouth. She clenches her jaw and seals her lips in refusal.
“What? Afraid you’ll enjoy the taste too much?” I sneer, hoping to bait a reaction.
Nothing? Fine, have it your way.
I set the blade down, then reach under her jaw. My thumb and middle finger press into corners of her mouth. She tries to resist by biting down.
I push deeper, past the molars, prying until I see her mouth open and her tongue flicker. In that moment, I shove my arm to her lips, muffling her groaned protest.
Her teeth scrape into my skin, and the wet warmth of her tongue hits blood. And then she drinks.
Her hunger takes over, lapping at the wound with trembling desperation, trying to pull every drop of my blood she can get.
I make a tight fist, encouraging the flow of blood. I glance down, her shallow wounds begin connecting, knitting themselves back together.
