The familiarity of sitting on someone's lap makes it easier for Lauralae to move close, to let her hand be taken with a twitch of her fingers, to let herself be drawn into Armand's space and have her settle there. She shifts her body to make herself comfortable, hooking one leg over his thighs and leans into his space, letting herself bask in it. It feels good, she thinks, to be so close to someone, to have a new kind of intimacy that was so foreign to her for so long, something as idle as touch that is a gift in itself.

The fact that he does not hesitate to touch her inspires a gentleness inside of her that she cannot express.

Comfortable now, she gazes out in the surrounding room, drinking in the people crowding, drinking, enjoying the moment even as the proof of what these people are is proven. It means little to Lauralae, who offers her blood without hesitation, who seeks her own growth in power in far worse ways, and her attention is pulled back to the man with her when he speaks, her expression twitching at her title. It's not wrong, but it is still frustrating.

"I am. I have never experienced anything like this before." The scent of blood is heady in the air, and it makes her feel alive. "Is this how you always celebrate? Or is this occasion a more special one?"