Her nipples have darkened. And there—beading at the tip—a single drop of pearl-white liquid, catching the golden light.
The areolas have widened, flushed a deeper rose, crinkled and sensitive; the nipples themselves stand thick and proud, longer now, glistening as another bead forms and trembles, heavy with promise, ready to fall.
"My body remembers," she whispers. "Even across the veil. It remembers nursing you. Feeding you. Giving you the first taste of divinity before the world demanded you forget."
Another drop forms.
Falls.
Lands on my lip.
The taste explodes—honey and starlight and belonging and purpose and every answer to questions I haven't learned to ask.
"Drink, my beloved," she says. "Take what was always yours."
She lifts her breast—a sacred offering—and brings her nipple to my lips. The tip brushes my mouth first, warm velvet against my lower lip, smearing a thin trail of sweet milk that makes me shiver.
