[He laughs! It's a cutting remark, but it hits nothing vital, and his mood stays playfully predatory. One hand takes hold of her jaw, tilting it to one side -- not quick, not violent, not too strong to fight off but definitely not inviting resistance -- and the other goes to her shoulder, pulling the neck of her dress out of the way.]

Penalty games usually aren't complicated. Most often, they're either an illusion world, befitting the loser's crimes, or the natural consequences of the lose condition. They're always appropriate to the situation, and usually can't be won -- unless I make an exception.

[He leans in toward her throat, from where he stands behind her chair. She'll feel the approach, his hair brushing the side of her face, and hear his voice get closer.]

Your penalty game...is Artery Roulette!

[His mouth opens, an inch above her neck, and it's only the fact that this is a game, that he's operating in a framework he's used to staying completely controlled in, that keeps him from having to take a moment to deal with the way her blood smells this close, as he searches for where to bite, as he picks his vein. This is still a penalty game, she is still going to have to fight, and just because he's been too too too aware of her blood for the last month and a half doesn't mean he won't be professional about this. He murmurs:]

To win -- survive.

[She won't have time to respond before his mouth latches onto her throat, and two small fangs pierce her skin.]