The icy sea wind moans, tossing his long russet hair. Bundled against the chill, his gaze is fixed on the horizon, though his eyes drift to her now and then, shadowed with a look of sorrow, love, despair, and a desperate hunger. He is utterly lost—with himself, with her, and above all, with the craving her presence stirs within him. Still, he cannot leave. Fear holds him captive—fear of himself, of her, of this tempest of emotion... Time and again, he finds himself reaching for her, for her warmth, only to recoil and curse this painful attachment. He is powerless to give up her warmth, and he does not wish to. Yet for the sake of her safety, he masters his impulses. He thinks he understands now how Eleanor must have felt, pushing him away. Now he stands in her shoes. He is the vampire, torn by his desire for a living, warm, and fragile human.