"What are you going to do?"
William's voice trembled—tight as a bowstring. He watched as Milagros slowly opened the refrigerator. The movement was graceful, almost tenderly feminine, yet there was something in it that pricked the skin with unease—predatory, deliberate.
Cold air slid out in a pale mist, carrying with it a faint, cloying sweetness—like caramel melting over a green apple. Beneath that softness lingered another note: sharp, metallic, too familiar.
Milagros reached inside and drew out a parcel. The paper was mottled with stains, as if sin itself had seeped through.
"Feed you," she said quietly. No smile touched her lips. Her voice brushed over the air like a silken ribbon—smooth, alluring, but with a diseased undertone that made his stomach tighten.
With slow precision, she unwrapped the package. Inside lay meat—red, fresh, threaded with crimson veins from which thick, living blood oozed in lazy rivulets.
