Lestat holds fast. Barely feels the strikes to his torso, hard knuckles to muscle. Words, more piercing, but he can take them too, rageful and and scarcely coherent. And slowly, Louis weakens, and he doesn't think it's so bad of him to bury his face against Louis' shoulder while he has him locked in like this, a brief crumpling hidden there.

The hold shifts. As Louis weakens, the grip gentles—a relative thing. Still holding him tightly, but that assertion of deep, supernatural strength abates, and Louis finds he is being held by another man rather than an unyielding statue of iron.

And he can break free of it, but Lestat doesn't let go, not yet. Waiting.