Carrick had never been a man gifted with words, unless it was the pity, succinct laconic dialogues of his home. Not like his eremenos. The vampire was a man of thought and of action; he always had been. There seemed to be nothing more he could say to Hermes. It was for that reason he leaned closer and slowly pressed his lips to Hermes' own.
His kiss was slow, gentle; devoid of its usual possessive hunger and instead holding every semblance of tendernes.