"Understood." He'd suspected that much. It was funny how vampires appeared bent on destroying the only thing that could have made their existence tolerable. Then again, he was a crow, never once human––he didn't profess to understand the thoughts of men and even less of vampires.
There was nothing more to say about that. Wolfram wasn't really the sort to waste words on empty talk, and he didn't see the need to protest every step of the way some might have. He wasn't here to prove how powerful he was, nor how much of an alpha he was. Logic dictated that the vampire already had an idea of the former and the latter simply did not concern the vampire just yet.
Despite the hesitance he'd displayed the night before when the vampire had first spoken of intimacy, Wolfram did not dither with his shirt. As he worked the buttons undone one by one, pushing it off his body, he went on almost conversationally, "You sound as if you've done this before. Have you?" If he had, what had happened to that former servant? Was there a human servant he had somehow missed in his research? The jeans stayed on––he wasn't shy about his body, but there didn't seem to be a need just yet for it. The bandage wound over his right biceps looked starkly white against his bronzed skin.
The physical distance between them felt strange, and it didn't quite line up with what they were supposed to do. So, Wolfram got up in one fluid step and stopped walking only when he was directly in front of the vampire. Death was like a light, gentle hand running down his spine. "What now?"