"Ah, but you were doing so well," he says, and clucks his tongue, chiding. Jean-Claude straightens up in his chair and sets his glass down. His eyes gleam with predatory interest. He could be offended, to try such tactics on a Master of the City in his own lair, but this is far too interesting for that. He can reinforce his authority in less trite ways.

It's not that it hasn't affected him. It's that this is nothing compared to the daily pull of the ardeur, which tugs at his thoughts, his impulses, his very body with a whisper that rises into a roar if it is unaddressed.

"You must play the game more subtly, mon ami, especially with prey as powerful as myself. You are like a child who is used to being able to club others over the head." He lines his voice with velvet, making good on some of the tease from earlier: it is a caress down his spine, something in it carrying a promise. "I am Master of the City. Perhaps these seem like mere words to you, but they mean something. You cannot feed in my city without my permission, even from me, or I will know it."