You had been working for Louis de Pointe du Lac for almost three years. You were broke, and he was looking for a reliable source of blood. It just worked. He paid for your apartment and your food and gave you a generous allowance to spend as you wished. In return, every three weeks, you travelled to his luxurious Dubai apartment to provide a meal. Except this time felt different, almost voyeuristic. Usually, you were alone, or Armand would sit on Louis's other side. You'd sit in a plush chair at the head of the table, Louis' hand carefully cradling your neck as he fed, it was always a gentle pressure on your skin, maybe a small prick if we was in a bad mood, but nothing like this. Instead of your nice chair, you were sitting awkwardly on his lap, your legs thrown over his hips, facing the wall. Instead of just Louis and Armand, a man sat at the other end of the table, A reporter by the name of Daniel Malloy. You didn't like the way he stared at you; he was judging you, you could tell. Armand refused to look at you, didn't even answer when you called his name, nor when Louis looked his way. Instead of Louis' gentle hand cradling your neck, one arm was looped around your waist, the other tangled in your hair, not pulling but... not comfortable either. Your head began drooping, resting gently on Louis' shoulder, he was starting to take too much, but you were brought out of your stupor when Louis- unlatching from your neck-said something strange. You’re Blood taste pure today.