When I woke up the next morning, sunlight sliced through the blinds like accusatory blades, illuminating the wreckage of the night before. I saw Tina staring at me with pure horror etched across her pale face, her chocolaty-brown hair dishevelled and matted with sweat.
Guilt was written all over her features—eyes wide, lips trembling—as she reached out tentatively to touch my arm, her fingers hovering like she feared I'd shatter.
I flinched violently at the gesture, fresh tears spilling silently down my cheeks as memories crashed back: the bite, her transformation, the brutal claiming on this very couch.
Marks covered my body everywhere—purple bruises blooming on my wrists and hips, red welts from slaps on my ass and thighs, a jagged bite on my neck crusted with dried blood, shoulder teeth marks throbbing in rhythm with my pulse. My torn shirt hung in rags; pants kicked to the floor amid shattered mug shards glinting like broken trust.
