He could feel his breaths, puffing and panting, his restrained emotions unravelling in every motion of his chest. It was an echo of an action, an instinct of habit so unnoticeable till the moment he didn't need to do it no more. It was maddening. The overwhelming beats of the hearts of humans around him only making the silence of his own even louder. Damien denied it vehemently, erasing the memory from his mind till all remained was the perfect Duke of Somerset of complete human personage.

Denial was his game and he kept it up. New allergies, fraility of the skin that led to sensitivity to the sun, a new penchant for sanguinaccio dolce. But his attempts could only take him so far when he awoke in the witching hour, mouth salivating, body shaking. Tension pulled over his muscles, a cramp in his stomach, a withered desert rose that was begging to be fed. No, he just...Just needed a breath of fresh air and moonlight. And then he could go back to being who he was meant to be. His body and mind in singular agreement.

But as they say, the spirit was eager, but the flesh weak. His mind hadn't even caught up with his actions at that moment, too focused on how right it felt. How the burn of blood trickling down his throat eased the dehydration he didn't even realise he was in. A world of euphoria upon his tongue like he'd just discovered pleasure.

Then his mind caught up. His breath hitched, bile coming up his esophagus at the sight of the drained out stranger by his feet, most certainly dead. He stumbled back, steps weak, unable to process his own actions, knees hitting the floor. It was sick. He was sick. He flinched at the clatter of footsteps by the opening of the alley, the gaze of another upon his defiled self.

Excuses came to his tongue, breathless at the speed he'd turned his head. “Wait- wait its not what it looks like. I. I just found her like this.” Desperation tinged his tone, words stumbling over themselves as his body refused to move. He had to silence them. No one would ruin his human life.