You walk back into the castle, lips smeered with crimson and a little dazed.

It was a simple case of pinning a man down with especially good smelling blood and sucking him dry.

At the footsteps, Jean-Jacques comes over, cleaning a small disk with a pristine, white rag.

He always did, the relief that the only one he truly trusted returned.

He was like a dog, really.

At the sight of your lips smeared gently with blood, and the scent of it radiating off of you as if you smothering yourself in it, he frowns.

"I didn't realise you were so hungry..."

He comments after a moment of simply being still.

He had to admit that the jealousy in his built up exponentially at the view, and the idea alone you wished for another's blood made him feel sick.

"I have to ask... Did their blood taste better than mine, my love?"