I flinch.
Not from pain—pain has never particularly bothered me—but from thesensation. The feeling of her feeding, of my blood flowing into her, of intimacy that transcends simple physical contact.
Desire.
The response is immediate and inappropriate given our circumstances—heat rushing through my system with every draw she takes, pleasure that I have to actively fight to keep from becoming visible. Each pull of her mouth sends electricity cascading through nerves that have become entirely too responsive to her specifically.
Not the time.
Not the place.
Focus on survival, not on how badly you want to fuck her.
I tame myself through sheer force of will, containing responses that want to become much more obvious. We're standing on a shadow platform above a volcanic hellscape while a three-headed hellhound prepares to destroy our only exit. Getting distracted by how good it feels when she drinks from me would be monumentally stupid.
My attention shifts to the problem we actually need to solve.
Prince Douche.
He's still floating nearby, watching the approaching disaster with the particular interest of someone observing entertainment rather than threat. His shifted features carry amusement that makes my teeth grind with frustration.
"Can you do something?" I demand, the words emerging sharper than I intended.
He blinks.
The reaction is slow, deliberate—the particular response of someone who wants you to know they're considering your request rather than simply complying with it.
"Hmmmm."
The sound carries consideration that's probably theatrical given how much he seems to enjoy making others wait for his responses.
His attention shifts to Gwenievere.
She's still drinking—still pulling blood from my wrist with the particular intensity of someone who desperately needs what I'm providing. Her hair is beginning to shift, golden strands gradually darkening toward the silver I know so well.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
The transformation is happening, but not at the speed we need. Damien's fireball continues to grow with each passing second, and at this rate, the gates will be destroyed long before she's ready to command him.
Koishii sighs.
The sound carries the particular weight of someone who has decided to do something against their better judgment.
"I'll listen to you just this once," he huffs, shifting his orientation from upside down to right-side up with casual disregard for the laws of physics.
Once.
He's emphasizing that he's only doing this once.
Like we should be grateful for his condescension.
"Not because you're my equal or anything," he adds, the clarification carrying superiority that makes my jaw tighten. "Simply because my Queen shouldn't rush her food."
Her food.
He's referring to my blood as food.
