Armand can flex his power in subtle and precise ways, centuries of practice, a certain talent for it to begin with. But he watches her, and watches Daniel with her, and takes pleasure in drawing together the ways a journalist is a hunter, kiting a resistance subject around, provocation, silent spaces, lures.

A pause, which is a drawing back, lifting his eyes to consider Daniel across her, eyes violent orange already. Pupils normal, naturally. "Yes," he says, an agreement.

Maybe he won't like it. He is willing to experience that too.

He settles his hand on the back of her head, and Deana falls her skull back against his palm without much coaxing. When he parts his mouth, shows his teeth, it is both the mechanics of the thing as well as wanting Daniel to watch him, see his fangs drop and sharpen. (Fun fact, the cat with the biggest kill rate is the black-footed cat, which is an especially diminutive predator, little teeth and big eyes.)

"Soon," he promises her, before leaning in, and setting his teeth to her neck, sinking them in.