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Summary
Landing heavily against the carpet, eyes turning to attempt a glare at the Van Gogh, Napoleons’ scowl had been cut short, seeing the vampire leaning directly over him, hands roughly clamped around his upper arms and pinning him to the carpet of the floor beside the bed. His eyes grew wide at the change... in his face... in his eyes. That hunger, the intent fixation still focused on his chest and shirt. The blood from the glass.
“Theo,” the soldier warned, the tone having no effect as the other appeared to have completely ignored his surroundings, concentrating on the red stains, “Theo,” he tried again, a tad louder, but still nothing.