Twisted Slough my life is a play, is a play

He presses the blood against her mouth. He expects to feel the rush that he did when he first bonded with his baietel; she rejects him. He was prepared to bite gently into her flesh to allow the exchange, but she did not submit. He snorts, drawing his limb away. He does not tend to it, too focused on making her food rather than a thrall. Pity, iubită, He murmurs, presses his lips to her throat. This would have been a lot less painful, He goes to sink his teeth into the flesh near her throat, not quite on her artery, but close enough to give him a knee-weakening spurt of blood.