Her fear came in waves. Cresting and peaking before falling to a dull swell only to rise again. It was...intoxicating. Gloriously so. Her very body all but poured those pheromones of fear into the night air. It lingered on her scent. It leaked from every pore. The predator within himself damn near relished in that aroma. That want for blood spiked all the more. Darcy's age alone perhaps all that afforded him control enough to continue to torment her as he did. A younger vampire would surely have been unable to resist that fear fueled blood and yet how often had Risque shown him just how to tease those victims until they very near marinaded themselves in that fear. How he surely owed his lover all the more for the wisdom she imparted. Darcy, in that moment, all but relished in watching Raylin squirm as her heart beat frantically within her chest and she tried near vehemently to deny the fear that dripped from her like sweat. Saliva had already pooled within his jaws. His body anticipating that meal he continued to deny himself for now, if only for the sickened satisfaction he toying with his food. Raylin's last words were poorly chosen. The fool of a woman attempting to appeal to his better nature, it seemed-as if she believed such a thing existed. Why was he like this? Oh how very easy that was to answer. That hunger drove all things. For Darcy it always had. The Southern vampire so rarely ever fully...sated. His appetite was...boundless. Eternal. Forever seeming to scrape at the inside of his throat like an itch he could hardly scratch.

Raylin wedged her drink between her legs and within the sand, her fingers running through those fine grains absentmindedly as she struggled once more to wrestle her fear into submission. Was this truly how she desired to spend her final moments? Letting sand run through her fingers? Was it supposed to be fucking poetic? Her sudden insistence that most vampires only needed to ask for a bite was near ludicrous. As if people walked around so freely offering a sip from their veins. Darcy felt his own features twist slightly. That southern vampire was some mixture of amused and ner curious. Death by her own choice. That, he was assured, was far more poetic. She had offered her veins hadn't she? Perhaps he merely need take her up on that offer. Darcy's hand lifted then, that universal gesture for her to come closer was smoothly given. The vampire insisted that he wanted 'a bite'. How readily he expected her to run, to scream, to make some attempt to flee. Perhaps he would even let her run a little, just to let her think she might escape if only to snatch that hope away from her in the last moment. Raylin's sudden, reluctant agreement was...unanticipated. That vaguest hint of surprise danced briefly upon his features as the young woman rose from her place within the sand before beginning to tread those few steps towards him. His insistence she had been lying seemed to press upon a final cord of bravery within her as her head snapped upwards in retort. Did she truly intend to let him take a bite? She had seen his teeth before. He had shown them to her. Those fangs unique to Darcy himself. The Southern vampire the singular and only one of his...species within the city. His fangs lacked venom. They brought nothing but pain. Oh how she would bleed. His tongue brushed across his lips in near anticipation. Darcy readying himself to reach forward and grasp her. Raylin paused suddenly, her head turned up to face him. The woman boldly insisted she wasn't offering. Her hand flung forward then, the sand within it colliding solidly with his face as Darcy all but reeled backward with a spitting hiss.

"Fuck!"

That curse word was spat from his lips, the vampire frantically attempting to wipe that sand from his eyes as Raylin fled up the beach. Those fine grains were nothing short or...irritating to his vision. A growl of outrage rose within his throat as that anger rapidly seemed to smother even his hunger in that moment. Bitch. How little desire he had to lose that prey. Not now. His own vampiric speed so readily seemed to find him then. Darcy a veritable blur as he tore across that sand in pursuit of the woman, his feet all but skidding on that pavement as he halted behind her, Raylin swinging in the same moment with that gun pointed towards him. Yet it was hardly the gun he noticed first. The scent of blood within the air was...potent. His gaze travelled downward. Raylin, in that moment, all but ignored as his mismatched gaze fixated upon her leg and the blood that stained it. Her words were all that broke his concentration then. Darcy's gaze lifted once more to eye her. A gun. His own weapon of choice. How ironic. That near twisted simper found his lips once more. A deep, rasping chuckle hummed within his chest.

"You ain't gonna shoot me, do ya know why?"

He stepped forward then, each step purposeful and slow. Each step a dare to that woman to shoot. His gaze unwavering from her own. How easy it would be to paralyse her and yet....how much that would surely ruin his fun. That sudden, vampiric burst of speed saw the vampire all but disappear from her view. Whether she had tried to fire that gun or not he hardly knew. Darcy reappeared suddenly behind her then. One arm wrapped effortlessly around her waist, pulling her back and into him. How warm she felt agianst the cold, hard plains of his chest. His lips found the side of her neck. That gesture almost....intimate as they brushed along it and further down to the slope of her smooth shoulder. A bite to the neck would be fatal from his fangs. A bite to the shoulder would be...punishment for what she had done and oh how he preferred that in this moment. Yet- for just one moment longer his fangs remained behind his lips as they lifted from her skin. His words a veritable whisper agianst her ear as his free hand lifted to encircle her own, the one that held the gun, his fingers gliding further upward to flick a singular catch upon that gun.

"Yar had da safety on."

Those words had no sooner left his lips then his fangs struck downward. Darcy biting into the flesh of the top of her shoulder. Those wicked fangs ravishing muscle and flesh in their wake as that blood he had all but craved bathed his teeth and tongue....

We are rough men and used to rough ways.