As the guy starts to move backward, Tony’s head slowly, in painstaking increments, cocks to the side, like a raptor watching a tiny mouse trying to scurry futilely away. He needs to stop thinking in terms of food. It’s not helping. Of course, nothing is helping and he can practically smell the fear pouring off of the guy. It heightens the faint tang of blood he can smell wafting up through his flesh, like a fine wine aged just old enough to be perfect.

And his heart, oh but it’s like music to Tony’s ears and his ears focus on its rapid beat, hearing only that as he watches his mouth move. He’s talking. Tony knows that he’s talking. But it may as well be gibberish for all he understands it.

He meant it, though, when he told him no sudden movements. Because he stumbles, and Tony’s on him so fast he doesn’t even register the movement. One second he’s standing there, too attentive, too prepared to strike. And the next he’s on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, palms planted next to his shoulders, pressing him down against the ground as he leans forward to sniff at his throat, his lips skimming back from his fangs. Stop it. Stop it. Stopitstopitstopitstopit.

“Didn’t I tell you? No. Sudden. Moves.” But he doesn’t bite. Even though his body’s practically screaming at him to do it, he refuses to give in to it.