Seulgi frowns when she feels Irene drawing away from the kiss. With her eyes half-closed, mind hazy with heady lust, she follows the elder’s movement, unknowingly drawing her mate even closer.

It isn’t her fault. A week without your mate is criminal—even if Irene had to attend some “important” coven meeting. (And totally not Joy’s fiftieth undead birthday. Seulgi suspects Yeri and her had wanted to buy booze—one of the few cons of being forever nineteen. And since Seungwan was actually off somewhere attending a conference of some sort, they probably decided that Irene was the next best thing.)

“Why’d you stop?” Seulgi complains, already moving forward to aim a kiss at Irene’s lips—only to be stopped by a raised palm. She wrinkles her pointy nose against it, and draws backwards, to gaze upon the unsettled expression of Irene.

Irene bites her lips, irises practically enveloped in darkness—signifying her want for either two things: blood or Seulgi, and then she carefully smacks it, pursing afterwards. “Do I … taste chicken?”

Seulgi tilts her head, hands automatically going downwards to caress pale thighs. Irene’s slacks had been carelessly discarded minutes ago somewhere down the hall.  “Chicken?”

“Did you order ramen again?” Irene wrinkles her brow. “Didn’t I specifically tell you not to buy those preservative-filled--”

“I didn’t, unnie! Honest!” Seulgi raises both her palms up in a show of submissive candor, brown eyes widening. “I didn’t even order take-out…” Irene’s wrinkle deepened into a frown when she sees Seulgi trail off into a gasp of realization, followed by abrupt silence.

“What?”

Seulgi’s cheeks are paling. She bites her lip, before hesitantly continuing, “I may have gone grocery shopping this morning.”

“And?” Irene is curious as to where this is going.

“I bought some meat—fish, chicken. I was craving chicken.”

“Chicken?” Irene rarely ever cooked meals that involved chicken. “I don’t remember teaching you to cook—"

  And then she stops, freezing up like some half- Aphrodite. Ebony eyes meet hazel. The odd taste—a mixture of the tang of iron and of the poultry, itself—rests on Irene’s tongue. The answer lies in Seulgi’s wide-eyed demeanor, no matter how much Irene hates it.

With the speed of a vampire, she launches herself off of Seulgi’s lap and runs to their bathroom, retching and gagging all the way.

With a huff of frustration, Seulgi leans back on the couch, slumping downwards and feeling rather unsatisfied in so many ways. She in a breath and shouts to the direction of the sounds of severe profanity and running water: “I’m sorry! You know how I get when I’m ually frustrated! I binge eat!”