Milk or Blood
Rose leaned her head, her long eyelashes dropping shadows across her red eyes. "In the world of mortals?" No. These things are legends. But in Sanguira—Vampire Realm, I am the creation of our kind. My bloodline started with me. As did the founders of other races, I established my own line. This is not uncommon for the divine, my son. It is merely how things are.
He sat back, shocked dumb. Each phrase she used sank into him like an anchor, tilting the foundation of all he believed he understood.
"So… I really have no father."
She smiled, a serene, proud radiance in her face. "No. You are mine, completely. My creation, my son, my heir. In this world… My family starts and stops with you and only you."
The silence that followed was not empty. It was thick, loaded with significance. The truth was unreal, but somehow… it released something in him. The blood, the power coursing through his veins, the peculiar connection with his sisters, the divine sense calling to his soul—it all began to make a bit more sense now.
He felt overwhelmed. The questions wouldn't stop, tumbling faster than he could keep up. She caught the shift in his eyes instantly.
Rose reached forward again, brushing her fingers lovingly through his soft pink hair. Her touch was cool, yet comforting. "But enough questions for tonight, my son. You've only awakened today. Let your mind rest."
He nodded slowly, the pressure of fatigue finally weighing down on his body. "You're right… it's been a lot."
Her smile widened, warm. "Tomorrow, I'll explain more. About Sanguira—Our Vampire Realm and our real world — Cryptoria. And the world that now belongs to you."
He stretched out, letting himself sink into the soft mattress, the silk sheets enveloping him in dark indulgence. "I'll wait," he whispered.
She observed him with silent fondness. Then, just as his form relaxed, her voice seeped into the quiet like a mischievous wind.
"My dear… do you want some blood before you sleep?"
His eyes instantly opened, a shiver coursing through his frame. "W-what?" he stammered, sitting up abruptly.
Rose laughed, her glee barely contained behind her sophisticated smirk. "Son, are you really surprised? Have you already forgotten how much you used to hunger for my blood… and milk… when you were young?"
His breath hitched. His throat dried. He gazed, lips quivering, mind racing to keep up with the memory—one that felt half-fantasized, and yet horribly real.
Her smile remained—tender, knowing. She didn't remind him. She didn't have to.
And then, suddenly, he wasn't so sure he did want to forget.
"You haven't eaten," Rose whispered, her voice a whisper of silk against bare skin. "If you don't want blood. Then, I can give you my milk instead."
Alex's breath hitched.
His eyes fell involuntarily as she raised the hem of her gown—slowly, carefully—just enough to show the heavy swell of both breasts. Her hands moved with solemnity, cradling herself with lovely delicacy. The pale curve protruded beneath the thin, clinging nightgown like moonlight finding a rent in a misted veil.
His throat constricted. A primal commotion stirred deep in his chest, something old and animal-like. A flaring memory—not his own, but older than thought—surfaced in him. Shadows embracing heat. A holier intimacy. A place before words, before reason, where he had lived on nothing but her—her blood, her milk. No solid food. No extrinsic nourishment. Only her substance.
Because vampires weren't born wanting taste. They were born hungering for essence—for the heartbeat of life itself. And for him, that birthplace was her.
The look of her now—soft and ageless, the rise of her chest gentle as a hill, the womanly fullness of her body, and the infinite patience in her eyes—struck something far deeper than lust. It touched a place under his soul, a hunger far more ancient than flesh. A holy hunger. A truth.
And yet… confusion began to stir in him, a ripple of disbelief shattering the reverence.
He gulped, voice raspy. "Wait—Mother… you still make milk?" His words tumbled out, eyes wide, heart spinning.
Her eyes gentled further, lips rising into something that was not seduction, but adoration—unshakeable, divine. "Yes, my son," she replied softly, her voice interwoven with serene assurance. "As the Primordial Goddess, I have full control over my body. If you require milk, I can provide it. If your body, your blood, your soul demands it—I will fulfill that demand. I can lactate… if that is what you wish it to be.
Her smile intensified—not with seduction, but with an endless, maternal beauty. It was shameless, yet free of shame. It was the gift of a goddess to her work. A mother to her child.
Alex was transfixed. His breath was shaking. This was no enticement—it was something higher. She was his founder, his goddess, his origin. And now she was presenting him with everything.
If you desire it," she whispered, "I will offer it to you."
Again, her hands moved, the nightgown slipping down. Her breast rose in the candlelight, the dusky pink of her nipple barely perceptible through the sheer fabric, already eager for his decision—waiting, lovingly, patiently.
He nearly took a step closer. The space between them vibrated with something intense. But he caught himself, shaking, torn apart by respect and restraint. His heart pounded in his chest.
Then, quietly but resolutely, he breathed, "No… I—I want your blood. Not your milk. Not now."
His voice broke beneath the burden of his desires, but his eyes were certain.
She paused, then slowly lowered her hand. Her smile softened, and she nodded. "Alright, dear one."
She reached out her hand—elegant, pale, and smooth. He took it in both of his, trembling. She guided it to his lips, offering her wrist freely.
Alex stared at the delicate veins beneath her porcelain skin. They pulsed faintly with life. With power. With her.
An animalistic urge surged through him.
He couldn't tell her—he didn't have to.
His instincts had already taken control.
And he drank.
Alex brought her wrist closer, his breathing shaky as he pressed it to his lips. Something ancient awakened deep within his chest, and he felt his fangs extend—stretching, lengthening—until they met the tender skin of her wrist like concealed blades unfurling.
He waited a mere beat.
Then he struck, sinking his fangs into her.
Her skin snapped open and her blood flooded onto his tongue. Warm. Thick. Sweet.
No—sweeter than sweet.
His eyes widened in raw pleasure, his pupils dilating as the first flavor touched his tongue like a forbidden nectar, sweeter than candy, richer than anything he'd ever dreamed. It wasn't flavor—it was euphoria. His entire body ignited with heat. A hum resonated inside his head as if ancient voices sang to him through her blood.
He drew greedily, hungrily, like a part of him had always craved this particular taste and never known.
Rose observed him with a gentle, knowing smile, her scarlet eyes half-closed. She didn't shudder. She didn't recoil. She just allowed him to take what no one ever had before.
Her blood.
The finest blood in vampire society—the blood of a Progenitor. A luxury even over royal lines. And she had shared it with no one in her countless years.
No one. but her son.
Alex.
A gentle murmur left her lips as he drank, not of agony, but of a pleasure born of something more—something ancient and maternal and tied up in blood.
He didn't take much.
But even that tiny something roused something hot in his belly. His gut felt the warmth spread, as though a sun had blazed to life within him, and a rush of light-headed happiness swept over his head. Gradually, he backed off her wrist, lips open, breathing hard.
His fangs receded to their resting place, albeit sharper than ever. He touched his tongue across the twin punctures, and the skin below started to close—two small wounds mending under his contact.
Alex raised his dazed gaze to hers.
There was a mist behind him, as if he had drunk too much wine. A mist that caused his sight to reel in slow, dreamlike waves. Blood still stained his lips, a dark red smudge across his mouth.
Rose smiled once more, her face gentle as velvet.
With gentle fingers, she leaned forward and swabbed the blood from his lips, her caress warm and gentle. "Now, sleep, my son," she said softly. "Tomorrow is going to be a very large day for us."
He nodded slowly, hardly able to construct thoughts through the glow still burning in his bloodstream. He settled back onto the bed, drifting into the satin sheets, the world whirling lazily.
She moved beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. As Alex's eyes fluttered shut, Rose turned to him, her smile lingering as she watched him sleep.
"My son… you've returned at last," she murmured, her voice a silken hush. "Your soul looks stable. Yes… now it begins."
She rested her head on the pillow, gazing at him in silence.
"The world shall know," she murmured to herself, the words never escaping into his hearing, "that the Supreme Empress of Sanguira, Progenitor of Vampire, Primordial Goddess of Blood—Rose Bloodheart—has a son."
Her son: Alex Bloodheart.
With a delicate snap of her fingers, the lights in the room fell to a soft glow. Her hand lifted to stroke his silky pink hair, her fingers gentle, awed.
And in that quiet, mother and son were together side by side.
One sleeping.
The other wakeful.
Watching.
Waiting.