It tangles in him, and Lestat is quiet.

Looks down at Antoinette, unmoving, cooling. The sign of his blood drinking on her neck. He had always liked to leave her marked, and she liked it too. Or pretended to. It didn't matter. She would take what he gave her, whether it was affection or something colder. She would give him—

Well. She wouldn't any longer.

"I couldn't part with her," an echo. Concession. "She gave me comfort. I've needed comfort. That is how it felt to me."