It was obvious. Or, it should have been. Some part of him held out hope that this wasn't going exactly where he feared it might be. Damn his ego. Even now, the praise and interest draws him as a moth to flame. To be adored in such a way is enticing, he cannot deny it. Even the way Pyotr tests the strength of his grip causes a new kind of hunger to rise.

One thing bothers him, however. "Understand this," he says coldly, "I have spent one thousand years resisting my inner monster, I will not have you steal my control. I can be cruel upon request," indeed, his grip tightens as he says it, until the sharp points of his nails prick at Pyotr's skin, "I can be your muse if you wish it, my body is eager to be your canvas, but you may not touch my soul. Is that clear?"