Alander turned his head at the accusatory hiss, dragging his eyes over the female figure. The scent was filling his nose, slowing his movements and thoughts just a tad. The world was a sluggish haze of fever-sweet sanguine and rippling motion.

A sharp inhale away from that oppressive sweetness helped clear his head a bit.

"Believe me," he muttered, staring at her with an odd sense of coldness and an almost unidentifiable emotion, "if I was hunting you...you would not be standing there. You'd be in my pot, simmering that toughness from your meat."

He turned back to his patient, continuing to tenderly clean the split meat. The woman he was cleaning spoke and he lifted his head, eyeing her with glassy eyes and an almost blank, small smile. "I'm fine. I just don't handle....blood very well." His voice was low and sounded almost tired.

This was not a lie. His stomach yawned in him desperately.