Ryan hummed. Very likely the man was his sire too, which also included mutual feeding and then plenty related problems arising from it. Did he care? Considering he had tried to recruit the younger man for his pack, he supposed he had no other choice but to judge how they conducted themselves behind the closed door, and know immediately Soren would pose a issue.
Whether he fucked well or not wasn’t necessary to Ryan’s personal thoughts. He dismissed the memory of their tangle, years old and almost forgotten except with his ventures being so few and far between he didn’t easily erase them from memory; it was there, still, that rough, exciting encounter against the walls of San Francisco, the hard showing of hips forward and those few minutes of being relaxed and in heaven, even though the pliant calls of his body weren’t heard; he didn't remember moaning. He didn't remember being a casual bitch in heat, asking for more of him.
He remembered stealing blood from him.
He remembered the bliss.
Ryan banished the memory calmly, eventually, there to observe her in her lean forward.
He’d have flinched, were he any weaker. Instead he watched her with a lick of cold, warning interest that casually dissuaded against any harsher movement, or some unspoken else. He’d never meet her in a fair fight. Her training was superior, his relied on the centuries of fighting people off. Street smarts versus a professionally trained soldier, there was no doubt in Ryan’s mind that his defeat would be eventual, but perhaps not slow. He might have declared that for the sake of his silly ego already trembling raw from this factoid, must not, shall not like it would send him off, careening towards own downfall at the hands of Melaina and her soldier history that spanned for far too long not to consider with respect. It didn’t require him to like it. Or to dislike it, and Ryan personally preferred neither over the other, calm, even still for a moment as he observed her hawk-like motions. Hawk-like himself, a duo of predators caught in a meeting but the audience would ponder, which got the best of which if he could easily order her to walk off, and she heeded his command, spitting, seething for sure?
He could have ordered her to full nudity, too, but--
That didn’t cross his thoughts. And it honestly did not.
She complained about the quiet-- and Ryan took to her face. He defiled her neck while she stared elsewhere, a mere few seconds permitted like a dire gift from the black heavens but it was plenty to smolder over the litheness of the nape, to want it, every sip of the blood tucked in there and covet in a silent yearning stab against his calm lower abdomen, not yet filling the bond with the ache but interesting him, anyway, in some sort of situation that manipulated her blood past his lips for a moment.
She would taste delicious. And she looked back at him, his calculative, mocking eyes calmly back on hers--
Her smirk soured his mood for no reason.
“I see,” he spoke. The drink was leaned away from his neck, leaving the spot it had touched predictably reddened. Ryan drew it up to his lips instead, drinking for a moment and then it was set down with a sigh-like act of someone surely too tired by now, an arch of his brows, theatrics in play and though it would hit the desk-top with a near invisible sound, Ryan’s fingers didn’t detach fully, connected by their warm fingertips.
“And I wouldn’t want you becoming my own… undoing, would I,” came out in a drawling, fearless echo. “Even though I would deny,” he carried on, in a whisper, “that I’d ever flirt with you, love-- surely we both--”
And that a moment, his hand was in motion, rising up to his neck, claw-like in position and the splay and spread of fingers--
“--understand that,” he finished just when his fingers made contact, on his neck and the side of it that suffered as they raked. The skin reddened without a second to spare.
In fact it broke in a place, a small spot that healed immediately with only a hint of a red drop gathering right there, staining his one finger. Realizing it, although quite nonchalant, Ryan brought the hand up for a viewing, and casually plucked with lips and tongue the smearing of blood off his thumb where it had gathered, just as casual in his words--
“My love, I cannot imagine a single situation where I would flirt with disaster. Now, flirting with thrill,” he announced, with dark, resonant cheer, his lips spread into a wide, dangerous grin and a wild power in his eyes, bleeding a bit golden and dark--
“That, I would adore.”
The flash of his claw would be noticed for a split second before he balled his hand, and it pierced deep in there, the grunt of pain expressed in the cringe in his shoulders and a narrowing of his dark, seductive gaze into a pitch dark with the golden shine.
And then loudly, in a shrieking scent of everything well aged and sweet, he bled.