Jerry words were ringing in his ears as the older vampire circled him. He’d held Peter’s life, his unlife, he had shaped and molded Peter essentially since childhood; a little nudge here, a little push there. The things he was doing, trying to break free, those might be his own, but they were all he had. It was a mockery of self-control, of free will. He had become the person he was because Jerry wanted him to, and he could do what he wanted because Jerry let him. Peter was seething, trembling with complete rage, and completely helpless to do anything about it. He would kill Jerry if he had the chance... but he couldn’t find that chance.
Then Jerry had him against the wall, and he’d torn open the skin of his own wrist, and every other thought was lost. Just the smell of his sire’s blood, and he was compulsively drawn to it. Jerry put the wound to his lips, and the moment he tasted it on his tongue he was leaning into it, trying to draw more of that precious blood into his mouth. More of his teeth extended, and he grabbed hold of Jerry’s arm with clawed hands, holding him in place while he bit down.
Forget human. Forget the other not-so-humans around Lawrence. This blood, Jerry’s blood, it was like the best sort of drug, and he hadn’t had a hit in far too long. He fed greedily, all thoughts of sire bonds or killing Jerry or breaking free were totally lost; there was only that taste, and his sire’s voice whispering in his mind. He opened ink-black eyes, staring half-lidded at Jerry over his arm as he drank.