A little excess blood trickles around his wrist before the worst of the punctures seal up deep, saving the rest. Instinct has Armand lift his arm so that this little, diminished river continues its path down his arm rather than to drip on the floor. He could probably use his other hand to stem it as well.

His other hand is busy, though, still resting warm against Daniel's cheek as Armand tips his head, studies his face, looks into eyes that have gone a golden-red, more earth than fire, like Baltic amber, still bright. A stroke of his thumb glides along blood-slick lips, feels the remnants of fang at the edge. Pushes just enough to test its sharpness, as if he wasn't just well acquainted.

Relents, hand gentling, still with a spread of contact, fingertips to jaw. Feels a storm of urges. He has already given into enough of them for one night.

"Better?"