"Pretty sure I already signed up," Daniel points out, hands dragging up skin warm from recent feeding, nosing at the hinge of Armand's jaw. "Also, you sat and watched me dismantle seventy-plus years of your life, and turned me anyway. I gotta assume you like it when I pin you down to find the truth of you. Which," and he sweeps the hair from the nape of Armand's neck, nipping him there, "is a huge turn-on to a guy who's programmed to do that."

He hums, contemplating the idea of the recovered memories. Of course he wants them back; he'd been ready, at a couple points, to chase them down, to extract what he's missing if Armand didn't offer them up.

So why does he feel the vague tug of misgiving?

"Is it hard to hold onto them by yourself?" he asks, side-stepping his worry.