“You’re a ripe one.”

Bela’s sickle rests against your throat, holding you against her corset-clad chest as her lips skimmed across your cheek. Breath hot against your flushed flesh, relishing in the way she could get you all squirmy from a play chase.

An alternative way to satiate the carnal hunger that burns in her belly that doesn’t involve brutal murder.

“Would you let me have a taste? Pretty please?” she purrs, black lipstick smearing against the underside of your ear. The hand that’s not holding the sickle reaches up to cup over your beating heart, feeling the rapid pulse under her palm with a thrill.

You really are worked up, just as she was.

She likes that.