Chapter 18 : Little Milly, How Could You Be So Delicious?

The scent of blood—sweet, metallic, thick—rose with the steam, swirling in the humid air.

Milly’s back struck the cold porcelain of the bathtub, a trail of half-dried blood smearing down the tiles like a dark confession.

Stacy’s tendril coiled around Milly’s waist, submerging her deeper into the water.

Crimson mist bloomed from her pale skin, spreading through the clear bath like ink in milk.

As if sensing the blood in the air, the thorned vines wrapped around Stacy’s fingers twitched—then bloomed.

A deep blue flower unfurled at the tip, twisting hungrily toward the blood-scented vapor.

It drank.

And as it did, its petals flushed a vivid, predatory red.

Stacy plucked the crimson bloom and slipped it into her mouth.

The flavor burst—sweet iron and summer-ripe berries crushed under the tongue.

Milly’s blood was addictive.

Rich. Tempting.

She wanted more.

But the flower had taken only a few drops.

Not enough.

Her gaze dropped to Milly in the water.

Most of the blood had washed away—leaving the water faintly pink.

She leaned over the tub, stirred the water with her fingers—then brought them to her lips.

Not salty. Not bitter.

Just perfect.

Like a delicate broth infused with essence.

And that was just from soaking.

What would the source taste like?

She couldn’t wait.

The tendril pulled Milly close.

Her fangs flashed—then sank into torn flesh at the crook of Milly’s neck.

Dry scabs and fresh blood flooded her mouth—two flavors colliding on her tongue.

She bit harder, sucking, drinking, as if Milly were a fruit too sweet to waste.

Milly’s muffled groan was swallowed by the rippling water.

She felt the cold lips and tongue not just biting—but savoring.

As if her body were a delicacy to be tasted, appreciated.

Blood trickled down Stacy’s chin—thick, alluring.

It was too much.

She couldn’t resist.

Clothes fell away.

She stepped into the tub, pulling Milly into a crushing embrace.

Milly’s instinctive struggle only thrilled her more.

Fingers traced the crisscrossing scars across her body—each one a delicious ridge of pain.

Then, with sudden force, Stacy dug her nails into the deepest wound along Milly’s ribs—fresh blood welling up instantly.

Milly’s unfocused blue eyes reflected their tangled forms.

Each ripple in the water felt like a noose tightening around her neck.

But Stacy wasn’t done.

When her tongue flicked over the deepest scar, she suddenly gripped Milly’s jaw.

Milly’s neck arched back—exposing the pulse beneath.

Stacy’s crimson eyes narrowed—pupils turning to slits.

“More intoxicating than honeyed wine…” she whispered, voice thick with hunger.

“Little Milly… how could you be so delicious?”

She licked a fresh droplet of blood.

In her eyes, Milly’s pain-wracked face was art.

She wanted to bite deeper.

To tear open the artery.

To let the gush fill her mouth.

But reason won.

Her fangs left crescent-shaped dents in the skin—so close to breaking through—then stopped.

Milly’s blood was too sweet.

She’d nearly lost herself.

Only then did she remember why she’d brought Milly here.

To clean her.

Blood on the sheets was inconvenient.

No bath—no bed.

But in the heat of the moment, the scent of blood had consumed her.

And now—

Milly lay unconscious, eyes rolled back, body limp.

Oops.

Stacy gently cradled Milly’s narrow waist.

But the scarred skin—rough, broken—had lost its pleasing texture.

She reluctantly let go.

No use for bed-warming like this.

A damaged doll couldn’t provide comfort.

The bathwater had cooled and dropped halfway.

She refilled it with warm water, then carefully washed Milly from head to toe—every inch.

The hands that had just fed on her blood now moved with gentle precision.

So soft. So tender.

No trace of the monster remained.

After drying her, she dressed Milly in a pure white nightgown—thin as gauze.

But her beautiful eyes narrowed in thought.

What to do with her now?

Then—an idea.

……………

A small figure curled in a cage.

The sheer white nightgown clung to her bony frame like mist.

Her washed skin glowed with a sickly pallor.

Visible scars—still faintly glowing—cut across her body like molten trenches.

White hair, like faded moonlight, draped around her, still damp.

The gown slipped off one shoulder, revealing a circular mark carved into her collarbone.

Beneath the hem, her legs bore faint pink scars—like crushed rose petals pressed into snow, glowing faintly in the dark.

“Mmm…”

Pain dragged her back to consciousness.

She’d fainted from agony—now woken by it again.

This body had suffered too much with her.

Her first instinct wasn’t to look around.

It was to curse.

And curse she did—loud, raw, unladylike.

“That b*tch Stacy is insane! A total psycho!”

She didn’t care about image.

Stacy couldn’t understand her native tongue—she could say whatever she wanted.

She unleashed every insult she’d ever learned—until her voice cracked.

Only then did she notice—

Something was off.

No soft mattress.

No suffocating weight.

No octopus-like limbs crushing her.

She should’ve been on the bed—forced to warm it.

But not today?

Finally.

Freedom.

She’d take cold stone over that daily torture.

Wait—

She was lying on cold stone.

She pushed herself up.

Too dark.

She reached out—clink.

Cold metal.

She felt around—all metal.

She’d been locked up?

“Psycho… lunatic…”

Her hoarse curses echoed in the silent cage.

But she got carried away—her native rants mixing with the language Stacy had forced into her mind.

But Stacy wasn’t here.

No problem.

She kept cursing—

Then—

A voice, cold and sudden, cut through the dark.

“Little Milly… seems quite lively today.”