Monster. Maker. A creature bonded to him for eternity; a creature that's turned Daniel into a monster, too. But being a monster feels more correct. He feels like himself. Through death, Armand didn't just make Daniel a vampire, he made him real.

Nothing damned could feel this good. No clearer proof to him that heaven and hell aren't real than his maker fucking him and spilling his own blood everywhere, hot and liquid and smelling like both of them— a part of him is always tainted just so with Armand, now, his life having filtered entirely through the ancient being in magic transformation.

Crazy that it's the bite that's going to do it. The feel of his blood, Armand re-arranging his insides, the fact that he can keep up with it and the only pain is from their sharpest edges. He wants to drown in it, choke in it. Daniel rakes claws down his back to grab at him, encourage him to take more, take what he wants, take everything. He is on the edge of shattering. When he kisses him, it's a badly aimed mess that scrapes the softest parts of his maker's mouth with fangs.