Blood for biscuits

I shouldn’t have told Stefan I’d swapped blood for biscuits, or maybe not in those words. He went all twilighty on me, snarling and snapping and snapping at my throat. It took me all my strength to push him away and over and hold him down on the ground. I tried to explain that I just had a sweet, sharp, tooth – I hadn’t given up, no, of course not, but sometimes I just fancied a nice biscuit, washed down with a nice cup of tea – and off he went again, eyes all white, slathering and barking and making a hell of a noise. Tea and biscuits. Nice. Of course, as I told him, my foot on his neck, he’s old eastern empire, he wouldn’t have tea, but I’m sure he’d kill for a cream cake and a coff- You know, sometimes you just can’t say anything without someone going all mad wolf snarling and leaping out the window. He’ll be back when he’s killed horribly. Enough to put you off your biscuits. I’ll keep the whole vegetarian thing to myself for a while I think.

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