The spit lay carelessly beside her; its polished surface shimmered dully in the fading light, its tip stained with her blood.
Anja knelt beside her, smiling knowingly as she watched Lila run her fingers over her own body in disbelief. "Disappointed?" she teased, tracing Lila’s lower lip with her thumb. "You were so eager that I almost thought you’d beg me to light the fire." The casual cruelty of those words ought to have hurt, yet Lila’s pulse quickened; her cheeks flushed at the memory of how her hips had arched to meet every thrust, and how she had sobbed Anja’s name at the moment of climax.

Part of her was relieved, yes—but beneath that, a darker thought stirred: disappointment. She had been so close. Nearby, the fire pit gaped, cold and filled with ash. It wouldn't have taken much. Just a few logs, a match, and a spit that went all the way through. The image flashed before her mind’s eye: her own body slowly turning over the flames, her skin roasting to a beautiful, crispy golden-brown.

"Why didn't you just finish skewering me and roast me over the fire?" Lila’s voice was hoarse; her fingers still twitched in the damp grass.

Anja threw her head back and laughed—a full, warm sound that seemed utterly at odds with the cruelty of the spit lying between them. "Oh, little rabbit," she murmured, tapping the bloody tip against Lila’s knee. "That spit is reserved for women who embark on their final journey as my trophies." Her fingers brushed against Lila’s cheek, lingering just long enough to feel the shudder that ran through her. “And you? You aren’t even seasoned yet.” Anja hesitated briefly.
“And Lila…” Her fingers now combed through Lila’s red hair and stayed there. “It isn’t time to let you go yet.” With a more serious expression, Anja looked into Lila’s blue-green eyes. “Lila, Father and I need you; we love you—and besides, you’re still too young.”

Lila stared at the fire pit; the cold ash within it suddenly seemed less like an ending and more like an interrupted ritual. *We need you.* The words made her chest tighten—relief warring with something darker, something hungrier. She had braced herself for the roasting spit, for the flames. For being *desired* in that way. But being *needed*? That was new territory for her.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” she murmured, her thumb tracing Lila’s swollen lips. “Your turn will come, too.”