Well damn them, being out. Leaving him here like this, backed up out on a limb and almost shaky from it. It was like an itch, the bloodlust, a sensation that got worse from merely thinking about it. The more you thought, the more tempted you were to scratch, until it was all but impossible not to.

Only this was a little more than scratching an itch. Ishmael swallowed, like that would do anything for his dry mouth. And Monty was no help, either. Ishmael was trying his best not to focus on his presence, but everything around him was heightened, and Monty the exposed nerve against the airless room. He smelled clean, and fresh, and of some other scent of his, bright and rosy as a fucking flower in the morning dew. Beyond all that: the blood coursing through his veins, so loud Ishmael could almost hear it rushing in his ears.

Ugh, humans. "Nothing," Ishmael said, a little more snappish than he'd meant. He cast his eyes around the room, pretending to concentrate again on this and not Monty, but eventually let out a sigh (and tried not to breathe in afterwards). "Something to eat," he amended, choosing honesty only in an attempt to make it sound offhand, casual, the sort of nonchalance that could be tossed out with a shrug. Better to stop thinking about it quick, so he could make it through another day or two.

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