"You wouldn't have needed to go very far," Armand notes, ensuring his tone is even and half-bored. "I was never that far from you. I couldn't face the guilt and the repulsion of what I had done to my fascinating boy, but I was there."

The squeeze at his thigh and the promise of a hunt is a promising thing, as equal as it an old memory locked away that he doesn't know how to experience. He takes the sway of the bucket into account, sliding into a straddle of Daniel's lap while they're poised above Darrow, where he can draw his nails down Daniel's face.

"I'll let you chase me anywhere you like. Beg for you. Plead for you," he murmurs. "Let you write whatever books you like." He leans in to press soft kisses to Daniel's neck, fangs elongating. "Tell me which writer and if ever I return home, I'll deliver his body to your door."