Louis remembers the first few months of his turning, prowling through New Orleans and feeling as though the city halted in his path. Remembers the haze of days after Paris where he leaned into his nature, where he hunted and hunted and hunted - reveling in the power of his making.

The eyes turned on them in horror are both terrifying and exhilarating. Emboldened by Armand so near to him, he leans hungry into his kiss, daring to nip his own tongue so that even more sweet blood spills between them, hot and messy on their lips.

"Consort to the vampire lord. Don't mind the sound of that," he murmurs back, and there's a purr of approval, Louis sliding closer to Armand, both hands sliding to his waist, holding him.

A part of him, the very human part of him, wants to rebuke the idea of devouring everyone at the table. At succumbing to the very thing he was made to be more than century ago. And maybe he will in the morning when he's not drunk on wine-laden blood and the fiery power of his husband's offering.

"I don't think they'd have time to thank us for it, mon seigneur. Would you make them beg for it? Get them all crawling across the table to us?"