Through the haze of pain, a strange sense of detached observation settled over Myra. Even as Freya’s teeth tore into her flesh and her life force ebbed away, her gaze drifted towards the vampire. In the throes of her primal hunger, Freya’s face was contorted, her features sharp and animalistic, yet Myra could still see glimpses of the woman she knew, a desperate need etched around her tightly closed eyes.

  Then, as suddenly as the brutal feeding had begun, it shifted. Freya’s frantic drinking slowed, her grip on Myra’s shoulder loosening slightly. Instead of the violent tearing, a soft, wet sensation spread across Myra’s bleeding scratches. Freya was licking the wounds, her tongue tracing the scarlet lines across Myra’s chest and arms with a surprising tenderness.

  The sensation was strangely soothing amidst the lingering pain, a stark contrast to the brutal bites. It was as if, even in her bloodlust, a part of Freya recognized the harm she was inflicting. The frantic, desperate hunger seemed to be receding, repced by a more… deliberate action.

  But the reprieve was brief. A low groan rumbled in Freya’s chest, and then her mouth was on Myra’s skin again, this time tching onto her colrbone with another sharp bite. Fresh waves of pain coursed through Myra’s body as more blood welled up, staining the dusty bedding a deeper crimson. Yet, even as she cried out softly, she noticed a subtle change in Freya.

  The rigid tension in the vampire’s body seemed to lessen, the frantic movements becoming less jerky. The guttural growls subsided, repced by soft, almost whimpering sounds. It was as if the act of feeding, the taste of fresh blood, was slowly pulling Freya back from the brink of the bestial insanity that had consumed her.

  As Freya continued to feed, the wild, unfocused look in her crimson eyes began to clear, a flicker of recognition returning to their depths. The desperate hunger seemed to be satiated, repced by a dawning awareness of her surroundings… and of the warm, bleeding body beneath her.

  The shift was gradual, almost imperceptible at first, but Myra felt it nonetheless. The frantic energy that had possessed Freya was slowly ebbing away, repced by a hesitant stillness. The monstrous grip was loosening, the predatory tension softening. Freya was coming back.

  And as the haze of bloodlust began to lift, a horrifying realization seemed to dawn in Freya’s eyes, a dawning horror at the act she had committed and the state in which she found herself. The primal hunger was fading, repced by a dawning consciousness and the devastating weight of her actions.

  Freya’s weight pressed down on Myra, a heavy burden that was slowly shifting from the primal tension of hunger to a terrifying realization. Her breath hitched, a ragged gasp escaping her lips as the crimson haze that had clouded her senses began to dissipate. Her eyes, no longer glowing with an unnatural light, focused, the blurred edges of her vision sharpening to a horrifying crity.

  She looked down, her gaze tracing the length of the body beneath her, and a strangled cry of pure terror tore from her throat. It was Myra. Her Myra. Lying beneath her, pale and still, her simple clothes ripped and bloodied, her skin marred by angry, scarlet lines and the raw, open wounds of Freya’s desperate bites.

  The pristine white of the bedsheets was now a horrifying tableau of crimson stains, spreading outwards from Myra’s ravaged body. Blood glistened on her exposed chest, matted in her hair, and traced delicate patterns down her arms. The air hung thick with the metallic scent of it, a visceral reminder of Freya’s monstrous hunger.

  Myra’s skin, usually vibrant with life, now held a ghostly pallor. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, her breathing weak and uneven. Tears tracked through the bloodstains on her cheeks, silent testament to the pain she had endured. Her eyes were closed, her shes dark against her pale skin, and Freya held her breath, terrified that she wouldn’t see them flutter open again.

  The delicate curve of Myra’s neck bore the unmistakable marks of Freya’s fangs, two deep, angry punctures surrounded by bruised and swollen flesh, still oozing droplets of crimson. A simir, equally brutal wound marred the smooth skin of her shoulder, a horrifying testament to the violence of Freya’s feeding frenzy.

  The sight of Myra’s broken and bloodied form sent a wave of self-loathing crashing over Freya. The monstrous hunger that had driven her was gone, repced by a crushing weight of guilt and a terror so profound it threatened to shatter her already fragile control.

  "Myra..." Freya whispered, the name a broken plea on her lips, a stark contrast to the guttural growls that had just escaped her. Her mind, slowly emerging from the crimson haze, recoiled in horror at the sight before her. What have I done? The thought echoed in the hollow chambers of her ancient mind, each sylble a fresh wave of nausea. This innocent soul... I have ravaged her. The burgeoning affection, the tentative steps towards a connection she hadn't dared to hope for, all y shattered, stained by the evidence of her monstrous hunger. Can she ever forgive me for this? Can I forgive myself?

  Every mark on Myra’s delicate skin was like a searing brand on Freya’s own heart, a visible manifestation of her deepest fear – the fear of the darkness within her, the fear of the harm she was capable of inflicting. The tenderness she had begun to feel for Myra, the fragile hope for connection, now y shattered amidst the blood and torn fabric, overshadowed by the horrific reality of her predatory nature.

  Overwhelmed by the enormity of her actions and the terrifying vulnerability of the mortal beneath her, Freya could only stare down at Myra, her ancient heart clenching with a pain far sharper than any physical wound, the devastating weight of her actions threatening to crush her.

  Guilt, a venom more potent than any sunlight, began to course through Freya’s ancient veins. It coiled in her chest like a suffocating serpent, its fangs sinking deep into the remnants of her fleeting happiness. The vibrant tapestry of their burgeoning connection was now ripped and stained, a masterpiece defiled by her own hand. Hope, once a fragile butterfly fluttering in the shadows of her existence, now y crushed and lifeless beneath the weight of her monstrous act. The delicate bloom of affection she had allowed herself to nurture for Myra was brutally torn from its stem, leaving behind only the raw, bleeding wound of her transgression. She was a storm that had ravaged a gentle garden, a shadow that had consumed a nascent light, and the desote ndscape of her own making stretched before her, a testament to the destructive power she could never truly control.