The change in tension was unmistakable, faint whisper of air and susurrus of silk as eyelashes slid against eyelashes when Asher's eyes closed, hair still golden under grease fanned against Jean-Claude's chest, over the scar he wore from the same year as Asher's fresh injuries. "If you will be civil," he murmured softly, "I will call my pomme de sang for you to feed upon. If you will not, I must contain you. We may not feed freely here."