Vlad still wasn't sure if the fact that Dracula found it easy to slip through in his dreams meant that he was weak or strong; but at the moment it didn't matter. His triumph was almost irrational, the sight of Aiden holding the bloody wound far more satisfying then it should have been.
He moved closer, sarcastic words on the tip of his tongue, but they disappeared when the other man's fist connected with his jaw. Red exploded behind his eyes, and in a rush of pain and anger he threw himself at Aiden, his own blood mingling with his enemy's and practically making him gag. His own roar of agony sounded distant to his own ears, and in a sudden gut-wrenching second he wasn't surrounded by impaled mannequins anymore.
He was in bed, with the sleeping form of Helena lying next to him. His jaw still ached, and the cuts that didn't exist burned with a dwindling fire.
His snarl of frustration was barely muffled by his pillow.