The ache woke her before
the light did. A soreness that ran deeper than muscle, pulsing in her skin, a
reminder etched into her body by Elira's teeth and lips. Sayuri shifted,
wincing at the sting on her chest, the throb on her thighs, the raw heat across
her neck. Every mark hummed, alive, a bruise that wasn't just skin but memory.
She opened her eyes. The room was hushed, the curtains breathing pale gold into
the quiet. At first, she didn't move. Her heart pounded in her ears, every
sound sharper for the stillness. Then she turned her head and saw her. Elira.
Her back faced her, bare, smooth, the curve of her spine half-lit by the
morning sun. Black hair spilled over her shoulder, unruly but luminous, strands
catching the light like smoke turned to fire. She was beautiful like
this—unreachable, sleeping, yet still dangerous in her stillness. Even with her
eyes closed, Elira radiated a kind of control that tightened Sayuri's chest.
Sayuri's breath caught. Her first instinct was to reach out—to press her palm
against that warm, perfect back, to remind herself Elira was real, here. Her
fingers hovered, trembling in the air above her, so close it almost hurt. But
she couldn't bring herself to touch. She pulled back quickly, curling her hand
into a fist. She couldn't. She slipped quietly from the bed, her movements
careful, every sound threatening to shatter the silence. Her robe lay discarded
in the corner like the remnant of some storm. She pulled it over her shoulders,
silk sliding against the bruises like another whisper of Elira's mouth. Her
hair fell in messy strands over her face, tangled from the night's violence.
She looked back only once. Elira hadn't stirred. But even asleep, she seemed
watchful, as though her hunger lingered beneath her skin. Sayuri's throat
tightened. She turned away and left. Downstairs, the air felt thinner.
Brighter. But the reflection that caught her in the darkened window made her
freeze—hair wild, lips swollen, neck painted in dark blooms. The robe slipped,
revealing the bites on her chest, each mark screaming what she had given in to.
Her stomach twisted. "Sayuri?" She spun, breath catching. Asan stood in the
doorway, his expression shadowed. His eyes weren't on her face. They lingered
on her throat, the bruises sprawling down like spilled ink, undeniable,
damning. Silence. "Are you… okay?" he asked at last, voice careful, restrained.
Sayuri gripped the edge of her robe tighter, pulling it across her chest. But
her hands trembled, her body betraying her. She tried to speak, but her voice
was thin, breaking. "I'm fine." Asan's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe her. He
took a step closer, his gaze scanning her—the mess of her hair, the hollow of
her eyes, the trail of bruises down her throat. "You don't look fine." Sayuri
lowered her gaze quickly, staring at the floor. She couldn't meet his eyes. Not
with the truth burning on her skin, not with her pulse still echoing the rhythm
of Elira's bites. Her lips parted, but nothing came. The knot in her throat
wouldn't loosen. And then—like a wave breaking—the past rose up to claim her.
Memories spilled, vivid and unstoppable. The first time she had seen Elira.
High school. It was fall, the air crisp with that sharp edge of change. Sayuri
had been leaning against the wall outside the gym, headphones in, her bag slung
carelessly over her shoulder. She had been half-lost in thought, the music
drowning out the chatter of students spilling down the hall. That was when she
saw her. Elira. She was walking with her head high, books tucked under her arm,
her presence commanding without trying. Her uniform looked sharper on her, her
blazer fitting like it had been tailored. Her black hair caught the sunlight as
she moved, and her eyes—God, those eyes—caught Sayuri's and didn't let go. For
a second, the noise around them faded. Sayuri felt it in her chest, a thud that
wasn't just a heartbeat but something heavier, deeper. Elira's lips curved into
the faintest smile before she turned away, disappearing into the crowd. Sayuri
hadn't been the same after. It hadn't taken long for their paths to collide
again. The next week, Sayuri found herself in detention for skipping class, and
Elira was there too, sitting two rows ahead. Sayuri had spent the whole hour
watching the curve of her jaw, the way her pen tapped lazily against her notebook.
When Elira finally turned, catching her staring, there had been no shame in
Sayuri's face. Only heat. Elira had smirked, just slightly, as if she already
knew. From then on, it was inevitable. Whispers spread quickly. They were
always together—at lunch, after school, walking across the courtyard.