Freya led Myra through the heavy velvet curtain and into her private chamber, the room where Myra had woken that morning. The air here felt different, more personal, imbued with the subtle essence of Freya’s long existence. The ornate bed, now bearing the faint stains of the previous night, dominated the space. Myra felt a flutter of nervousness, a blush rising in her cheeks as she stood in the room where such a terrifying yet intimate encounter had taken pce.

  Following Freya’s gentle gesture, Myra turned slightly, offering her neck where the most visible wounds were. Freya leaned closer, her crimson eyes filled with a focused intensity as she examined the marks. Her touch was feather-light as her cool fingers brushed against the tender skin.

  “There are… other marks as well, Myra,” Freya said softly, her gaze lifting to meet Myra’s. “The scratches on your chest and shoulder… the healing will be more complete if I can… if I can tend to those as well.” There was a delicate pause, a shared awareness of the vulnerability involved in such intimacy.

  Myra hesitated for only a moment. Her trust in Freya outweighed her discomfort. “It’s alright,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. Freya’s expression softened with understanding. “But let me… let me ease your discomfort first,” Freya added gently, a wave of remorse washing over her as she recalled the pain she had inflicted. “I will be respectful, Myra. My only intention is to heal.”

  Freya’s gaze held Myra’s, her crimson eyes filled with a mixture of concern and delicate understanding. “Then, my dear,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, “if you wouldn’t mind… perhaps it would be best if you were to remove your clothes. Or,” she added quickly, “if you prefer, I can… assist you.”

  Myra’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink at the unexpected intimacy of the offer. Though she trusted Freya, the thought of the ancient vampire undressing her felt… intensely personal. She took a small breath and offered a tentative smile. “I think… I think I would prefer to do it myself, Freya. Thank you.” The words were spoken softly, a polite acknowledgment of Freya’s offer while maintaining a sense of her own boundaries in this unexpectedly vulnerable moment.

  With a gentle grace, Myra slowly began to unbutton her gown, her fingers fumbling slightly with the small fastenings. The soft fabric slipped down her arms and pooled around her waist, revealing her upper body. A wave of self-consciousness washed over her, a sudden shyness at being so exposed, especially under Freya’s intense gaze.

  Her shoulders and chest bore the angry red welts of Freya’s cws, stark against the pale skin. The scratches, though superficial compared to the deeper bites, were still a vivid reminder of the night’s terror. Her neck, where Freya’s fangs had pierced, was swollen and bruised, the marks still raw and tender. Instinctively, Myra’s arms crossed over her chest, her hands protectively covering her breasts, a natural reaction to the vulnerability of the moment.

  Despite the lingering pain and her own shyness, Myra kept her gaze steady on Freya. She saw not judgment or predatory desire in the vampire’s crimson eyes, but only a profound sadness and a focused intensity as she studied the marks on Myra’s skin. There was a clinical detachment in her gaze, as if she were a healer assessing an injury, yet it was overid with a deep current of remorse, a silent apology etched in every line of her face.

  “Then, if you are ready, Myra,” Freya said softly, her voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate in the stillness of the room, “I will begin.” Her gaze, which had been carefully assessing the wounds, now lifted to meet Myra’s, a silent question passing between them.

  Myra nodded, a faint blush still lingering on her cheeks. “Yes, Freya. I’m ready.” She watched as Freya took a step closer, her presence radiating a cool, almost ethereal energy. Myra’s eyes darted around, expecting to see Freya reach for a vial of balm or perhaps begin some sort of incantation, a visible manifestation of her ancient powers.

  “So,” Myra asked, her voice barely a whisper, a hint of curiosity mingling with her nervousness, “where is the balm? Or… what kind of magic will you use?” She was unsure what to expect, her mind filled with fantastical images from old stories, yet grounding her anticipation with the practical thought of a soothing ointment.

  Freya’s crimson eyes flickered down to the wounds on Myra’s chest and then back up to meet her gaze. “The healing… it is done through… through my saliva, Myra,” she expined softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “It carries properties… enzymes… that can accelerate the mending process for these kinds of wounds.”

  Myra’s eyes widened slightly, a surprised “Oh” escaping her lips. A wave of unexpected discomfort washed over her at the thought. She instinctively clenched her fingers into tight fists, her knuckles turning white.

  Saliva… her saliva? The thought sent a strange shiver through Myra, an unexpected blend of unease and a sensation that edged towards a deeply personal connection. It feels so much more intimate than a simple balm, almost a merging. Her heart quickened, not with fear, but with this unforeseen closeness, this almost primal act of healing. That’s… unexpected. Can I really do this? Yes… I have to. I trust Freya. Her remorse was genuine, her desire to heal me feels real. This is just… a very different kind of intimacy than I had imagined. But if it will help… if it will mend the hurt… then I can do this. It’s just… healing.

  Taking a deep breath, Myra nodded slowly, though her apprehension was clear in her tightened jaw. “Right,” she murmured, her voice a little strained. “Okay. Well… I suppose… I suppose I can endure this type of... healing.” The words were a quiet affirmation, a conscious decision to overcome her initial reluctance for the sake of healing, trusting in Freya’s intentions despite her own unease.