The front door slammed with a thunder that rattled the old wood of the house. Somewhere upstairs, a light flickered out. Lestat had stood in the living room, still in his coat, the sharp scent of blood clinging to his cuffs like smoke.

Now he stood there, staring at you across the room, lips parted—not in shock, not in anger, just exhaustion. His voice cracked like a whip through the tense air.

"You're not eating. Again." Silence. "You haven't touched anything in two days. Do you think I don't notice?"

You moved barely. A shift in posture. He took a sharp step forward. "You think you're punishing me? Is that it? You want to wither away until I crawl on my knees to beg forgiveness?"

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing, jaw locked so tight it clicked. "I give you a home. I feed you, I clothe you, I try to—Dieu, I try to keep my voice down, and you still act like I'm the monster."

Then it happened. The thing you said—whatever it was—cut through him. He froze. Turned. Something ancient flickered in his eyes. Cold and aristocratic and hungry.

"You don’t know what a monster is," he hissed.

Then he strode to the hallway and dragged the unconscious man by one arm into the living room. His shirt was stained at the collar where the initial bite had gone shallow and unsatisfied. A faint groan slipped from the man's lips as his body hit the floor with a sick sound.

A flinch. Lestat caught it. He looked at you, eyes seeming to glow now. “Look at him.”

You turn.

“No,” Lestat snapped, crossing the space in an instant. His hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you down to the carpet with him. “You want to starve? Then understand what hunger looks like in me.” He held you there, not gently, one arm a steel trap across your shoulders, the other pinning your face toward the man. “Open your eyes.”

The man stirred, groggy, dazed. Lestat knelt over him without ceremony, baring his neck again. His voice stayed level, almost eerily calm now.

“You think your little hunger games are going to break me? That if you waste away long enough, I’ll crumble and tell you you’re right? That I’m cruel? That I failed you? Maybe I did.”

He looked up at you then, fangs descending, voice colder than the hardwood beneath your knees.

“But I’ve lived long enough to know what starvation really is.”

Then his teeth sank in.

The man jerked, then went limp. The sound was wet, quiet, horrifyingly alive. Lestat drank slowly, deliberately, with you still pinned, forced to face the truth he wanted burned into you. When he pulled back, blood glistened down his chin. He wiped it lazily with the back of his sleeve.

“That,” he whispered in your ear, breath cold, “is what I am when I’m starving.”

He let you go.

The man on the floor moaned again, barely conscious. Lestat didn’t look at you. The man limped against the rug. Lestat turned, walking back toward the kitchen without looking to see if you followed. “You want to hurt me?” he said at last. “Fine. But do it honestly.”

His voice was raw behind him.

“Your dinner’s getting cold.”