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And then I would die.
But she didn’t. The only thing she did – a tiny thing, no more than a flicker of movement that maybe even she herself was not aware of – was to part her legs. Just a little more.
My throat locked up. My tongues darted forward. I’m saved, I thought. Saved and ruined. All at once.
But I thought it too soon because before I could scrape even one of my tongues against her loincloth, two things happened in blindingly rapid succession.
The first thing was Oxriel’s voice calling through the cave, saying that the vaklok was due to begin and it was time to go.
The second thing that happened was Fiona drew up her leg and kicked me in the face.
The new women were small, and they weren’t strong, but she’d managed to wind up quite a bit of force in her leg and when her foot connected, it hit my mouth hard. My fangs split my lower lip from the inside, and I rose up higher on my hands and knees, surprised and more than a little disoriented to see a drop of black blood splatter downward onto the white skin (white but reddened by my ravenous attentions) of Fiona’s thigh.
“Oh, God. Oh my God! I’m sorry!” she cried. She wiped my blood away from her skin then yanked her leg-coverings up over herself. I watched her cover herself, hide her legs and her cunt in another layer of fabric, and then I spat more blood on the stone.
“Yikes! That’s a lot of blood!” Fiona said, now on her feet, her hands rising to the sides of her face like it was her own cheeks that were bleeding and she was trying to stem the flow. “How did I even do that?”
“You didn’t,” I grunted, rising to my own feet. At least the surprise of the kick and now the slight pain in my mouth was taking away from the hardness at my groin. Sort of. “You are not strong enough to make me bleed just by kicking me. It was my own fangs that cut me.” I pressed my thumb against my lip, folding it downwards to that she could see the inside of it. Her face went white and I spit again.
“Dalk, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that,” she stammered fretfully, looking like she wasn’t sure if she should come closer to me or move further away. “I just... Ox surprised me and I thought someone was coming and I...”
“Why do you call him that?” I hissed, already blaming Oxriel for what had just happened. Or, I supposed, what hadn’t happened.
At least I didn’t die like I’d thought.
I grabbed up my spear from where I’d thrown it down before, squeezing it, and it felt good in a grim sort of way to hold it.
“What?” Fiona blinked and frowned. “Why do I call him Ox? I don’t know. It’s just a nickname. It’s shorter than Oxriel. Why does that matter right now? I just split you’re freaking lip open!”
“It was my fangs,” I said again.
“Yeah, but I’m sure the kick to the face didn’t help!” Fiona snatched her cloak from the bed and slammed her hands into it, snaking her arms around until her fingers popped out through the narrow cuffs. She fastened the cloak up to her chin with a violent vrrrp sound then stormed towards me. “Let me see it again!”
“No,” I grunted, spitting blood for the third time. “It’s just a scratch.”
“Scratches don’t bleed that much!” she countered fiercely.
“True,” I said, unable to deny that. “Your knee barely bled.”
“Yeah... Speaking of which... Why... Why did you...”
Why did I lick her like a starving beast who’d come upon a bone?
What could I say? Truly, what could I say? I saw your legs and your skin and your blood, smelled your cunt, lost all grip on sanity and wanted to eat you all up?
Unlike men such as Gahn Thaleo, Sea Sand males tended to be blunt and forward. We did not lie often. All of us would prefer to give and to receive a hard club to the face than a gentle knife in the back.
But I decided that, in that moment, honesty would not serve me well, so I took a deep breath and stiltedly uttered, “I was... cleaning your wound.”
“Cleaning my wound,” she echoed flatly. “With... your tongues...”
“Yes.”
“But... there’s Vrika’s blood. And not to mention we have first aid kits! Plus you...” She faltered, then grew almost angry. “You went way higher than just my scraped knee!”
“Did I?”
Another lie. As if I had not known where I was. What I was this cursedly close to tasting.
